I straighten my shoulders, willing the tears to not escape.
I will not look weak.
I didn’t go through all that I have over the past four years all to crumble at the hands of Royce.
He glares at me through new eyes, the very same that he showed me when he first came home. This time feels different, though. Shame flushes through me in waves of heat.
“Answer me this,” he mutters around his smoke. I reach for his pack on the ground and blaze my own. I know I’m going to need it for the next question that he’s going to ask me. And all the others that will come after. He sucks in deeply, all the tense muscles in his face smoothing, and then I watch as he blows smoke rings out from his curled lips. “Was it you here the other night? With the same man?”
I clench my teeth. “Yes.”
His lip curls in a snarl as he leans forward, grabbing me by my chin and tilting my face up to his. The position I’m in now isn’t in my favor, like his perfect little pet sitting at his feet. Just when I think he’s about to say something, he squeezes my chin, pushing me away from him, before standing tall.
“Royce,” Wicked scolds from behind me, and when the door slams in his retreat, the first tear drops. I don’t even fight them anymore, the emotion that’s rolling around inside of me is uncontainable.
I bring my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead on the top. My cheeks burn with shame, my shoulders hunching protectively.
“Duchess,” Storm says, his hand on my shoulder. “You know how h—”
“Shut the fuck up, Storm.” Orson scoops me up from the ground, bringing me to the sofa with him. I swipe the tears from my face as Orson dips out of the room on the other side, bringing me back a woolen blanket.
He covers my body and hands me the bottle of whiskey. “Figure you might need it.”
I nod, wrapping my lips around the rim as I feel Wicked move in behind me, his arm spreading out over the rim of the sofa. “It was you?” I ask through cracked lips, after the whiskey long since departs, leaving its stain in my throat. I run the tip of my index finger over his flawless skin, tracing the deep blue lines of his veins in his arms. So pale.
Wicked’s other hand comes to my outer hip, tucking me under him. “Yeah.”
I swallow roughly. “Well, I’m relieved it wasn’t one of these fuckers.”
“Hey!” Storm laughs, taking a seat on the stage as Orson comes to the other side of me. “But true.” He and Orson laugh sadly before I feel both of their eyes on mine.
“Duchess,” Orson says gently. “Who is that man that you were with? What are you doing here?”
“Mmmm,” Royce ponders from the other side of the room and my spine snaps straight. “What are you doing here, Dutch, and who the fuck is that man?” When he enters into the room with half a bottle of whiskey gone and hanging from his fingers, he takes a seat on the stage while leaning against the pole, drawing his leg up to his chest while dangling his arm off it.
“I can’t answer that,” I explain, ignoring Royce’s eyes. He’s hurt me more times than I can count, but before tonight, it all seemed superficial. Like when a friend would hurt you in elementary school, and you’d get over it in a few days.
This is different now. I’m afraid that he won’t see me the same way now that he knows that not only have we already had sex, but I’ve also had sex with Wicked.
“What are you thinking, Duchess?” Royce taunts, and I swipe the next tear that falls down my cheek quickly. “Everyone get out. Now.”
“Me?” Wicked asks, his arm tensing in my peripheral.
Royce’s heavy chuckle cracks down the center of my spine. “Especially you.”
Orson and Storm move out first before Wicked begrudgingly pulls away from me and leaves the same way they did. When the door closes and the noise is cut out, I notice the music still playing, it’s just quieter now.
“Jade,” Royce demands my attention, and I finally bring myself to face him. Fatigue seizes my muscles. I’m drained. My eyelids are damp and sticky from all of my tears and my throat aches, right down to the burning fire in my lungs. “Who is he?”
My lip trembles. “Roy, I can—”
“Fuck, Jade!” he barks, hurling the half-empty bottle across the room until it smashes against the wall and shards of glass dipped in amber-colored liquid spray against the opaque walls. “Don’t keep shit from me!”
“I can’t!” I scream, but my goddamn stupid emotions make me hiccup around each syllable. “I just can’t—” hiccup “—tell you, Royce!”