Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

my shoulders slumped. “How did you know?”

“I always know.”

I was frustrated. Disappointed. Heartbroken. Pissed off.

And scared.

So fucking scared.

I didn’t deal with emotions well to begin with. My childhood hadn’t exactly equipped me with proper coping tools.

Not unless suck it up, shut up and smile bigger, or have some control were recommended in the new parenting books.

Right then, with everything building and taking over, there was nowhere for it all to go. The pressure erupted. And I lashed out. “You’re such a fucking stalker.”

“Yup.”

“And obsessive.”

“When it comes to you? Without a fucking doubt.”

“This is none of your business.”

“It sure as shit is. You’re my business because you’re mine.”

“No, I’m not. I hate you.”

Like the heaviness before a wild thunderstorm, the air around us grew electric.

I’d never seen Alexander angry. He was rarely frustrated or irritated. The yin to my yang—chill and happy, leaving the anxious antagonism to me. Even when he would wrap his hand around my throat or press a blade against my flesh, it was with tenderness. Gentle. He was always in control.

But not then.

“No, you don’t,” he said slowly. Firmly. His fury was barely restrained. His voice raw. “You might want to. You probably should. But you don’t.”

It was fucking insane to poke an angry bear.

But like my mother had always said, I was stupid.

“Yes, I do. I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone! I hate you, I hate you, I—”

My words were cut off when he cupped my face. It wasn’t forceful—I could’ve handled that. I would have welcomed the pain. The bite of his fingertips. The pressure on my throat or burn on my scalp as he pulled my hair when he made me his.

I got none of that.

His touch was light. Reverent. Possessive. But no less desperate than when it was hard and demanding.

That same desperation laced his tone, as if he had vines and thorns strangling his throat. “You don’t hate me. You’re pushing me away so you can make yourself a selfless martyr.”

I laughed, but it was carved from the darkest chocolate and dripped with icicles. It was that bitter and cold. “You’re wrong. So so soooooo wrong.”

“Enlighten me. What is it?”

“It’s not—”

“What?

“Just get out of my life.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t want you to see me sick! Okay? That’s it. I’m not selfless. I’m selfish. And so damn vain. If I’m sick, if I lose my hair again, I don’t…” My voice cracked. “Bald and sickly and covered in my own barf. My own parents didn’t want to see me like that, why would you?”

“Because unlike your piece of shit parents, I fucking love you, Briar.”

My heart froze in my chest. My breath froze in my lungs. The entire universe froze around us.

Fell away.

Disappeared until we were the only two beings in existence.

“That’s not possible,” I wheezed, as if I’d had the wind knocked out of me.

“It is.”

“It’s too soon.”

“It’s not.” His thumbs swiped at tears I hadn’t realized were sliding down my cheeks. “I knew from the first time I saw you that you could become an obsession. Hell, I was already half in love with you when you told me your smile said murder and destruction. But I fell hard when you grinned at me the first time. Not a forced smile. Not a small one. You were sitting on the counter in my shirt, and swear to Christ, Briar, it was the most stunning thing I’d ever seen. So beautiful, it almost hurt to look at, like I was staring at the sun.” He moved closer, shifting us until my back was pressed to the wall. “But I’ll take the pain. I’ll take every ounce of it if you let me.”

“I…” I licked my dry lips and shook my head. “I can’t love you.”

“Why?”

“Because love has to come from inside first,” I said, parroting Derrick’s words from a couple sessions before. They’d stuck in my head, like a taunt from a mantra-a-day calendar.

“Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. How can you love someone else if you don’t love yourself? That’s what everyone always says, right?”

“Everyone are a bunch of greedy morons who prey on the vulnerable in order to hock their self-help books or stupid inspirational signs.”

“That’s not true.”

“So if someone has low self-esteem, they’re just supposed to be alone the rest of their life? The human race would die out.”

He had a point.

“I can’t be dependent on you to make me happy,” I told him.

Or maybe myself.

“Why the fuck not? Your parents were the ones to mess you up, why can’t I be the one to love you until you see what I see?”

He had a point again.

I’d let others tear apart my self-worth. Why shouldn’t I let someone else help me rebuild it?

Especially when that someone knew all of me, flaws and quirks and scars, and he liked what he saw. He wasn’t trying to make me better because he already thought I was perfect. He wasn’t trying to rid me of my demons. He played with them.

Accepted them and me.

“What if I never see it?” I asked.

“Then I’ll keep loving you enough for the both of us.”

God, that was infinitely better than all the other self-love crap I’d been force-fed.

Like he knew I was teetering on the fence, Alexander used my body against my mind. His mouth took mine, his tongue twirling and teasing as he deepened the kiss. Somehow managing to keep our lips connected, he shoved my leggings down and off before lifting me. He freed his cock and slammed into me, fucking me against the wall. It was hurried and frantic and desperate.

It was perfect.

“Tell me you need me,” he demanded as he used the wall and his hold on my hips to slowly slide me up and down his length.

I ignored him and demanded, “Faster.”

“Tell me.”

“Harder, please.”

“Tell me, flower.” He froze, his thick cock pinning me to the wall, stretching me and causing an ache only he could soothe. “Tell me you’re just as fucking obsessed with me as I am with you.”

“Yes! Okay? I need