by Dee Palmer
I flash a glance at the monster before me just in time to see him let his heavily weighted boot swing forward. Easily crashing through my arms, again and again. Pounding his full force and weight into my abdomen. I try to curl in on myself tighter, but he grabs my head and stretches me out. I limply take punch after punch to my face. The pain is everywhere but the only noise I can distinguish is his heavy breathing and the sound of softly crunching tissue and sometimes bone. I can’t seem to scream…cry…I can’t find my voice at all.
“Who makes you happy, sweetheart?” His demonic chant rings in my ears. He always asks the same damn question, every time he hurts me the most. He repeats but emphasises each word this time with a carefully placed brutal kick to my stomach. “Who. Makes. You. Happy. Sweetheart.”
I try to answer because I know from experience he won’t stop until I do. But large floaty black spots seep across my glazed vision, tempting me into the darkness when an almighty cramp shocks me enough to sit bolt upright. Richard steps back and we both look at the large dark mass of liquid running between my legs. My white dress quickly unable to absorb any more of the blood as it drips, drips onto the floor.
“Richard, please.” I cry and hold my hand for him to help. The confusion in his face must mirror mine. Why won’t he help me? Can’t he see what’s happening? Can’t he see I need help?Can’t he see I’m going to lose the baby?
“It looks like we’re about done here, don’t you think?” He pulls his cuffs down and brushes at the specks of my blood that now pepper his sleeves. Little streaks and smears cover the pristine white material. “What’s good for getting blood out of cotton?” He inspects the material like it is the only thing remotely significant. I’m haemorrhaging badly, and the agony is barely masking my utter devastation. I drag myself toward the door just as it opens. My mother steps into the room and gasps. Not because she has seen me or the blood, but because having Richard in my room is strictly forbidden.
“Mr Brookes-Hamilton, I know you intend to marry my daughter, but please do not take liberties with my kind nature.” She gushes with her false reprimand, but her colour drains when he pushes the door a little wider to reveal me in a crumbled heap, losing more blood than I can spare.
“Mother…please.” I manage to cry before I sink back into myself.
“Oh, Grace, what have you done?” Her grave words are laced with accusation and venom. “Mr Brookes—”she pleads as Richard moves to her side. “—Richard please don’t go. I am sure there is a very good explanation.” She reaches for his arm to stop him from leaving but his thunderous scowl prevents her actually making contact.
“Oh, there is, Mrs Cartwright, there is…Your daughter is a whore.” I hear her suck in a sharp breath as his footsteps recede quickly or maybe my level of consciousness fails to distinguish the sound of him walking away and he is still there. I don’t care anymore, I just need help.
“Mother, please, you need to call an ambulance.” I reach for a hand that isn’t offered and freeze when I recognise that expression of stone and hatred settle on her implacable face. Her beady blue eyes narrow and her cheeks burn with anger. She looks like she is desperate to once more spew all her hatred and bile. But not today it seems. I know that everything bad that has ever happened in her life is my fault. She’s drilled it into me since I could talk, and now I have just ruined her chance at a life she believes she deserves.
My hand falls to the floor, skidding in the sticky mess and I slump down, flat on the boards. I manage to turn my head and meet her gaze…She could freeze ice with the warmth of her compassion for me. She’s not going to help my baby…she’s not going to help me. She steps back through the door and leaves me in an ever-increasing circle of my own blood. She leaves my baby to die and I don’t doubt for a moment she hopes I will too. I pass out to the sound of a solid click of the door closing and the turn of the iron lock.
Get The Disgrace Trilogy here!
Dee Palmer lives just outside of London with her husband and (slightly embarrassed) children. Her passion is writing sexy steamy romance stories that will scorch the pages right off your kindle and are guaranteed to make your heart pound. She loves an HEA but isn’t afraid to put her readers through the ringer before she delivers.
When not at her desk she can be found either fannying around on Facebook or with her nose stuck in her Kindle. Once in a while when the lights are down she might be spotted about town searching for the best French martinis and throwing some dubious shapes on the dance floor.
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