Dead of Summer

“Why?” He actually seems confused, and a little bit curious. “They can’t hurt you anymore, can they? Surely they can’t be scarier than me.”

And that, of all things, drags an incredulous laugh from my throat as I tilt my head back, his hand slipping around to the nape of my neck and cradling me in his hold. “Oh, Kayde,” I mumble, eyes shut hard. “If only that were true.”

The confusion is as genuine as it is expected. His hand doesn’t tighten on my throat, though he thumbs the scar a few times, causing me to feel queasier than I had a moment ago. “Stop, please.” I murmur, knowing it isn’t my brand new safe word but wondering if it would even count for something as non-sexual as this.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not physically.”

“Will you tell me?”

A slow smirk crawls over my lips, and I gaze ruefully up at Kayde, arms twisting in the ropes holding them just over my head. “What will you give me if I do?”

His confusion fades, replaced with his own grin. His hand moves lower, until he can stroke the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip almost affectionately, though I don’t know how in the world I’m supposed to tell him anything if he keeps his hand there.

“I’ll let you stop something once without breaking our deal,” he murmurs at last. “Just for tonight, because I know you won’t like how I intend to play with you. Not at first, anyway.”

“Anything? Any part of it, you’ll stop?”

“Well.” His grin turns a bit sheepish as he drags his hand back up to cup my cheek. “Anything except fucking your sweet little cunt. Come on, Summer. You can’t take that away from me.”

I snort, considering it. He really is giving me a choice right now. It’s rare for him, I suppose. I can either tell him and receive a ‘get out of jail free’ card for later, or refuse to tell him now and forsake it.

Is telling him really that bad?

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me tell you some other time?” I ask, wiggling my arms. “And still give me the pass? No offense, but this isn’t exactly how I enjoy having my heart to heart confessionals.”

His grin never falters, but his eyes do glitter. “Not a chance, baby girl. You could lie to me and make something up later.”

“I could make something up now.”

“If you do…” He leans in close, jaw brushing mine before he murmurs against my ear, “Then you better not let me know it’s a lie.”

That’s rather terrifying.

And definitely a threat.

Taking a deep breath, I twist my hands in the rope that I can reach, and close my eyes hard for just a second before letting them flick back open. If I’m going to tell him, then I won’t hide from him.

“So my dad was a piece of shit…” I begin, a humorless grin curving over my own lips. “And like, I mean that with every bit of disrespect possible.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kayde’s gaze doesn’t waver. He pretends not to notice my squirming, though he keeps his hand on my throat, thumb stroking over my collarbone like he’s trying to reassure me through this. Though, if that’s the case, someone should tell him he could do it without the threat of me being strangled. I blink, refocusing, and breathe in a deep, unsteady breath.

“I hope it doesn’t offend you, but I was more afraid of him than I’ve ever been of you,” I admit, still unable to hold completely still. But I hadn’t been able to back then, either. I would writhe and twist in my dad’s grip, trying however I could to get away from him.

“Tell me what he did to you,” Kayde murmurs, not rising to the barb. His voice is unreadable, and even his face provides nothing for me to go off of. “Tell me why you’re so afraid of him.” Present tense, not past. But I don’t think it’s a slip up on his part.

“He started with my mom.” Something about being here makes it a little easier, in a place that feels disconnected from the outside world. The mix of orange and white light blends together on the wall behind Kayde, and I wish to God I was still wearing my shirt, at least. “He started small. Just little things he’d say to her. He never hit my mom,” I’m quick to clarify, like Kayde gives a damn.

“He hit you.” It’s a statement, and Kayde’s voice is still just so strange.

“He hit me a lot,” I agree, my words a whisper. No one else can hear us, but that doesn’t change the fact I can’t say this any louder. “God, he was so mean when he drank. And after he drank. And when he was upset with Mom. She didn’t know at first. He hit me where the bruises would be under my clothes and told me I couldn’t tell anyone or he’d hurt Mom, too.”

“And you didn’t, because you have a self sacrifice kink and a savior complex.” His mumble seems irritated, and I see him roll his eyes. “God, Summer. I thought this was a onetime thing.”

“Guess not,” I snort. “Kinsley said something about that too when I took the blame for a classmate’s fuck up in high school choir.”