I stare at the embossed wedding invite as though it’s an emaciated Great White and I’m on my fucking period. I’ve been here before. Done this before. Bought a big, white dress and set that bitch on fire. Before.
She snatches her nightdress off the floor then shrugs it on, not even attempting to be sexy about it, a fact for which I’m grateful. “You think Dash is perfect. You think you love her.” She shoves her feet into those stupid assed slippers then plucks up her panties. “But you don’t. You don’t love anyone.”
She charges up to me, going toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, while she wags her finger, thong included, under my nose. Her panties reek of recently fucked pussy, and it’s a dickslap in the face. “You can’t,” she screams. “Bastards like your aren’t capable of love!” Her smile turns arctic, her final words like razor blades. “And even if you were, remember this. She doesn’t love you. She’ll never love you. You made goddamn sure of that, you stupid motherfucker.”
Prudence flings her hair behind her, pushes her shoulders back, and then prances out as if she’s just won the Triple Crown. And that’s when I lose my shit.
I slam my fist into the mirror, not caring that I bought myself seven years of bad luck or that my knuckles are raw and bleeding. I don’t care about anyone or anything because Prudence is right.
Dash doesn’t love me.
She’ll never love me.
Not again. I destroyed her once. I destroyed her twice. Then I destroyed her a third and a fourth time. But the final time? She destroyed me.
Dash’s hard eyes are on mine as she waves away the security milling around her like they’re pesky bees and she’s their motherfucking Queen. At that moment, I wouldn’t put it past her to fuck them, just to make their dicks explode and watch them die.
Pink floods her creamy cheeks, reminding me of all the strawberry milkshakes I used to sneak her at night. She thought they came from Luke. Probably still does. But my brother doesn’t notice the small things, let alone do them. That’s why he doesn’t deserve her. He thinks he’s worthy, believes they’re meant to be together. But he isn’t, and they aren’t. He’ll never have her. I’ll never let him.
Men say they’d kill for the woman they love. Not me. I don’t say it. I don’t have to. Because I’ve done it, and I’ll do it again. And again and again. Until she’s safe. Or until the world lay bleeding at my feet. She’s mine, and I protect what’s mine.
Of course, she’s at my desk. She’s always at my desk, which kills me because I want her on my desk. I want her on her knees on my desk. I want to tonguefuck her from behind while I fingerfuck her tight, little asshole—while she’s on her knees. On. My. Desk.