Shallow River

I’M LOADING THE LAST dish in the dishwasher—sans Ryan’s coffee mug—when I hear footfalls behind me. My shoulders tense, but I don’t stop as I pop soap into the slot, close the door and start the machine.

I’m just pressing Start when Ryan’s hand whips out and grips my pointer finger tightly. I freeze, my eyes snapping to his cold, dull blue eyes.

“What?” I ask, forcing innocence in my tone.

“You know what,” he growls. I don’t have time to formulate a reply. In one quick motion, he snaps my finger backwards.

I hear the break. I feel it. But the pain doesn’t register right away. I’m too shocked, my wide eyes slow to look away from his and down at my finger.

My mouth drops when I see my finger bent completely backwards.

Then the pain hits.

I rip my hand from his and cradle it to my chest as tears flow from eyes. My mouth forms around a scream but all the escapes is a whimper. Before I can rage at him, he grabs me by my hair and swings me into the wall. A cry rips from my throat when my broken finger hits the wall, my attempt at protecting my face. Dizziness overtakes me from the pain.

“I’m so fucking tired of you embarrassing me, you bitch,” he grits out before he slams my head into the wall.

Instincts take over. Despite the fact that I’m seeing stars, I scream and kick at him, punching with both hands, broken finger be damned. He subdues me easily, clamping a hand across my mouth in the process. Both wrists are gripped in his other hand.

“Do that again and I’ll fucking kill you, do you understand?” When I don’t respond, he shakes me roughly, his face contorted in pure rage. I nod my head, tears slipping from my eyes without permission. “Why don’t you understand that I’m the only one who would actually love you? Yet you continue to disobey me. Do I ask a lot of you, River?” he shouts, spittle flying into my face.

Against my better judgement, I shrink away from him. If it were possible to curl myself into a little ball and disappear, I would sell my soul to do so.

“Do I?!” he yells. I shake my head with desperation. I just want him to stop yelling. I don’t want him to be mad anymore.

“Then why do you disobey me, huh?” he asks, shaking me again. His hands squeeze tighter and tighter until it feels like my wrists are going to snap. “I do everything for you. I treat you like a queen. I provide for you. I let you waste your fucking time with college and spend my fucking money. And this is how you act!”

He ends his statement with a rough push. The last thing I remember is falling backwards, the bottomless feeling of falling through air in the pit of my stomach. And then nothing.

THE SHARP PAIN IN my head assaults me first. Then the ringing in my ears follow close behind. The pain is blinding. Just the thought of opening my eyes sounds exhausting and painful.

Feet shuffle next to me. Slowly, memories start coming back. The dinner with Mako. How angry Ryan was when Mako told me about the Ghost Killer. And when Mako left, how Ryan had assaulted me.

Again.

Right as that memory hits, so does the pain in my finger. My pinky just healed, and now another finger is broken. Though, I’ve had plenty of broken bones over my childhood. If I wanted to, I could welcome the pain like an old friend. Sometimes embracing it is the only way to get through it.

Brushing off the pain in my finger, I turn my attention to the person walking around. I’m in a bed—our bed. And I’m completely naked. The chill air registers, and immediately goose bumps rush over my skin like a tidal wave.

Fuck. If Ryan notices, he’ll know I’m awake. Nobody’s skin breaks out in goosebumps when they’re knocked out.

I keep my breathing deep and steady. Eventually, I hear the bedroom door open and then click shut. Immediately, my eyes snap open. Fuck easing into it. I don’t have time.

The light sharpens the pain in my head, but I push past it. I need to figure out what the hell is going on. I look down to confirm that I am naked. My lip trembles at the onslaught of memories of waking up exactly like this not too long ago. The things he did to me afterwards will forever imprint my brain, right where the rest of my trauma resides.

My breath lodges in my throat when I see bite marks marring my stomach and thighs. My eyebrows tighten, and I try to think of when he did that. They’re fresh. Some of the bites even have little dots of spit on them that haven’t quite dri

ed yet.

The soreness between my thighs answers the question I now realize I don’t want answered.

We had sex a few times in the past week, and while he had been excessively rough, he hadn’t bit me. When my lip trembles again, I force it between my teeth, clamping down tightly. Did he seriously do this while I was knocked out? By his hands? Who does something like that? Who knocks out someone they’re supposedly in love with, and then fucks and bites them when they’re unconscious?

I can’t process something like that right now. Before I can figure out what to do, the door swings open. My heart freezes. It’s too late to close my eyes and feign sleep. Our eyes lock, and my heart stutters like an old engine.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice calm and emotionless. He doesn’t sound angry. I think I’d prefer that to the cold calculation in his tone. At least when he’s furious, I know what to expect. This side of Ryan is unpredictable.

“I am,” I force out, my voice broken and rough. I try to clear my throat, but the dehydration burns too badly, and only makes it worse. “Can I have some water?” I ask softly, purposely subduing my voice to sound sweet.