Damaged: The Dillon Sisters

by Layla Frost

  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 you so badly, it terrifies me.” I paused, my breath freezing in my lungs and my heart pounding as I admitted what terrified me even more. “I love you.”

  As though my admission was his oxygen, his drug of choice, his sun… As though my love was the only thing he needed, he closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to mine.

  A heartbeat passed. Then two.

  And then he moved.

  Hard.

  Fast.

  Brutally taking me to give me the kind of pleasure-pain only he could.

  Ensuring he was my oxygen. My drug of choice. My sun.

  And that I was his flower, needing only him to survive.

  I knew we were being loud. It was likely my neighbor or anyone in the hall could hear us. Hell, it was likely people on the top floor could. But I was too far gone to care.

  Body tightening, my muscles squeezed my bones until they hurt before I came. Unraveled.

  “Love you,” Alexander grunted, his words raw and harsh as he thrust into me. Filling me with him and his come and his love.

  “Love you, too,” I panted, clinging to him. Wrapped in his hold, his head tucked into my neck and his come dripping from me, my brain began to function again. I tried to push his shoulders, but he didn’t budge.

  His body tensed even as his lips trailed along my sensitive skin. “Hmm?”

  “We really need to do something about your penchant for sexual manipulation.”

  Lifting his head, he grinned down at me.

  And I decided I didn’t mind the manipulation so much after all.

  _______________

  “TELL ME ABOUT your appointment.”

  I’d expected that. I was surprised he’d managed to hold off until after I was cleaned up, changed into my pajamas, and dinner had been ordered.

  “Eh, you know how doctors are. It’s always a lot of hurry up and wait.”

  He looked down where I was curled up in his lap and raised a brow, letting me know my vague answer wasn’t cu
tting it.

  “They ordered a bunch of labs and tests for next week.”

  “You said again earlier.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  “Did I? Weird.”

  Another look that said he wasn’t buying it.

  In order to tell Alexander everything, I revisited memories I’d rather suppress to the depths of hell where they belonged. My symptoms—both past and present. My diagnosis. My time in the hospital, praying for that same specter of Death to kill me. As I talked, I clutched him, anchoring myself. Reminding myself that I wasn’t back there.

  That I wasn’t alone.

  I told him about how my parents were absent through most of it. “My father, who was a damn doctor, was too busy with face lifts and fake boobs to come see his own kid. And my ugly illness disgusted my mother. I was ruining the perfect image she worked so hard to project.” I gave a laugh that was disturbingly warm. “It was poetic justice and karma and comeuppance all rolled into one that she died of Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.”

  “She did?”

  I couldn’t hide my small, evil smile, and thankfully, Alexander didn’t recoil in horror at my macabre glee. “She was an alcoholic and a pill popper—and not a functioning one. Her body rotted away, but she was too doped up to notice until it was too late.”

  He gripped my hips. “Is A.L.L. hereditary?”

  “I don’t think so. No more than any family history of cancer increases your risk.”

  “So it’s unlikely our kids will inherit it.”

  My eyes went so wide, I was honestly surprised they didn’t pop out of my head.

  I’d never planned on having kids. Not in my wildest dreams. Or maybe my worst nightmares. If having a pet—or, hell, a houseplant—was too much responsibility for me, a human was definitely out of the question.

  Being in love with Alexander didn’t change that.

  “In the far, far future,” he added, reading my panic.

  “That future might require a portal to an alternate timeline,” I told him honestly, in case it was a deal breaker.

  It wasn’t. “If it happens, it happens. If not…” He shrugged and squeezed me tighter.

  I was all determined to break up with him, and now here we are, talking about love and our potential future children.

  I’ve got whiplash.

  “Maybe, in the far, far, far future, we can start with a dog,” I said in the name of compromise. “Or a cat. They’re also assholes, so I feel like we’re compatible.”

  “Deal.”

  “Tell me about your parents,” I ordered. “Quid pro quo.”

  “You don’t have salsa to bribe me with.”

  I cupped his face and moved closer until our lips were barely touching. Just a graze. But it was still enough to make my breath hitch before I pulled away. “Quid pro kiss.”

  “Now who’s using sexual manipulation?”

  “I learned it from watching you. Now spill.”

  “They were amazing parents. My dad worked maintenance at the school where my mom was a nurse.”

  “For some reason, I’d assumed they were tech geniuses like you.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not the only one who never understood my techy whatnots. They didn’t even have a computer until I got interested in them. My dad worked a bunch of odd jobs to buy a used one for me.”

  A pang of envy hit my chest. “What happened to them?”

  “Coked up driver.”

  My envy quickly morphed to rage. “Did the cokehead die in the crash, too?”

  Bad karma or not, I hoped so.

  He shook his head. “Barely a scratch. And since he was a rich asshole who could buy his way out, he got barely a slap on the wrist, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.” He pressed his lips to the side of my head. “But thank you.”

  I jolted when there was a knock on the door—likely our Pho.

  “My mom used to come up behind me and pull my hair or pinch my flab so hard, it’d bruise. It’s why I hate being startled,” I explained, something I’d never shared with anyone.

  Even Aria didn’t know about the physical abuse, just the emotional stuff and the neglect.

  “You sure she’s dead?”

  At the unfettered fury in his expression, I knew if she weren’t, he’d make it so. That was a lot more romantic and moving than it should’ve been, but whatever.

  It was what it was.

  “I’m sure. I put dirty cat litter in her urn and everything.”

  Alexander’s eyes went wide.

  And then he threw his head back and laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nothing

  Briar

  For naps

  THERE WAS NOTHING worse than a doctor’s office.

  The color schemes. The outdated signage meant to be informative or inspirational. The cliché art, as if patients would look at them and magically forget where they were.

  ‘Wait, what? This is a doctor’s office? I thought it was The Louvre!’

  All the small, frivolous decor in the world couldn’t camouflage the medical supplies, the stinging scent of antiseptic, or the heavy air of fear and desperation that clung to the building.

  Following the nurse down the hall, we stopped at the cubicle for my vitals. She gestured for me to enter first. “Shoes off and step on the scale, please.” I did as she said, and she peered over my shoulder at the blinking number. She entered it into a laptop before making a small noise. “You’re down weight from your appointment last week.”

  Because I’ve spent a week undergoing tests and then freaking out about said tests.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of yoga,” I lied.

  If I tried to downward dog, I’d downward face plant into a downward nap.

  I wasn’t eating—despite Alexander’s attempts to ply me with his delicious cooking.

  Or sleeping—despite Alexander’s attempts to wear me out with his cock.

  Or doing much else other than freaking out—despite my own attempts at animal distractions, repeated mantras, TV binges, and memes.

  She had me sit before wrapping the cuff around my arm to check my blood pressure. “Do you have a history of high blood pressure?”

  Only when I’m potentially facing my mortality while surrounded by bad art and easy listening musac.

  Or as I call it, hell.

  “No, just nervous.”

  “Understandable. Put your shoes back on and we’ll get you settled into a room.”

  She waited until I was seated on the exam table, the paper crinkling loudly under my butt, before launching into the usual questions regarding medications, pain levels, and changes in my medical history, as if anything had changed in the week since I’d been there. I answered each question while silently willing her to hurry the hell up and put me out of my misery.

  She didn’t.

  Once she was done, the nurse let me know Dr. Elio would be right in and closed the door on her way out, trapping me in the ugly room. Leaving me with my racing thoughts and what-ifs and fears. Leaving me with the specter of Death lurking in the corner, his evil and scheming eyes locked on me.

  I knew I was being dramatic, but I was allowed. I’d earned it. I’d lived with the toxicity flowing through my body. I’d welcomed a different kind of toxic sludge into my veins, allowing the two to battle inside me until it saved me or killed me. I’d spent nights on the bathroom floor, caked in vomit and too weak to care, begging the deadly rot to win. To kill me.

  If that was what I was facing again, I earned the right to be dramatic. To be terrified. I deserved to fall apart and let someone else pick up the pieces.

  Which was why I reached over and took Alexander’s hand, soaking in the strength he offered. Because I wasn’t alone. I had him. And, had I told Aria, I knew she’d be there, too. Stressed and worried and grilling every nurse and doctor about every detail because she cared.

  That knowledge was enough for me.
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  “You okay, flower?”

  I wanted to say something snarky or joke with him, but I couldn’t push the words past the lump of nerves knotted in my throat. All I could muster was a jerky nod as I pulled him closer so I could bury my face in his shirt.

  Minutes stretched to hours that stretched to days. In my head, at least. In actuality, it was less than ten minutes before a soft knock sounded and the door opened. Dr. Elio stepped in and smiled. “Briar, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “You, too,” I lied, shaking his hand before introducing Alexander. Nothing personal against the doc, but I’d rather be anywhere else in the world right then.

  Belatedly noticing the two women who followed him in, a fresh surge of alarm shot through me until he said, “This is Emily and Quinta, med students shadowing me. Are you okay if they sit in for the appointment?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine.” That wasn’t a lie. The room could’ve been filled with hula hooping sharks and the Queen of England on a Razor scooter, and I wouldn’t have noticed so long as the doc finally gave me my results.

  I was worried he’d waste time catching them up with a long spiel about my history, but he was a better doctor than that. He looked at me and cut to the chase. “All your labs and tests look perfect. You’re slightly anemic, but nothing that a good multivitamin can’t fix.”

  My heart stuttered in my chest and blood roared so loudly in my ears, I worried I misheard him. “Everything’s fine?”

  “Better than fine. There are no signs of cancer.”

  Tears sprung to my eyes as the specter of Death dissipated, moving on to haunt someone else.

  Only after giving me that amazing news did Dr. Elio backtrack to fill the students in on my medical history. On my previous battle with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia. On the chemo, the pills, the results, and the eventual prognosis that I’d beat the disease.

  And, based on the results of the tests he’d ordered, that I’d continued to kick the disease’s ass.

  “Now that brings us to your current symptoms,” he said, returning his attention to me.

  I braced, waiting for him to tell me it was in my head. That I was being overly sensitive. A hypochondriac.

  “Are you under any stress?”

  “A bit,” I admitted.

  As in, for the entirety of my life.