♟️On the Floor by Jennifer Lopez ft. Pitbull
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
I hate that he lied as much as I'm thankful he did, because that means he now has something over my damn head, and knowing him, he will use that to break me at any given time, when our parents and the twins are far away from us. "I think I won't be able to eat any kind of meat anytime soon," I groaned, and this time, I meant it.
"We still have to get rid of his car, burn what's left of his stuff, clean the cabin, the boat, and clean the blood in our trail back here, father," Tristan said, and again, it baffled me his coldness about it.
"Leave that with me, you two need a bath to get rid of all that blood," his father said and began to take off his robe, staying just with his shorts on, showing his sculpted broad upper body, and I couldn't help staring at it.
Father was right, Damien De Vere Beauclerk is insanely hot, I can't even blame my mom. He looks like an older version of Tristan, but more tanned and with amber eyes, plus a beard, the strings of his black hair that are grey making him even more attractive. The men is jaw-slacking gorgeous at 45.
"Here, sweetheart, cover yourself, you're nearly naked," he walked towards me, and I thanked hell for my face being covered in blood because I blushed. "Don't blame yourself for it, you survived, he deserved to be killed in the wood crushed while alive for daring to touch you."
A big hand yanked me back, covering my eyes and I gasped, "Stop gawking at my father, Aella, he's mom's husband."
"Get off," I pushed him away, but he kept his hand covering my eyes. "Stop being childish, Tristan," I hissed.
"You were gawking at my father," he hissed.
"Yes, and? He's hot, with all due respect," I snapped before I could hold myself. "And those are my dad's words. I may dislike him, but if my dad thought he was hot, I think it's alright to say it. Because he is hot, Juliette has a crazy taste in men, my dad was hot as hell, and so is your father, she is," he pressed his other hand in my mouth and even though I tried biting it, he didn't release me.
"That's enough," he snapped. "Put the robe on her, dad," he groaned and I heard them laughing, which made me feel like a clown.
Then Damien was putting the robe on me and as I inhaled his Calabrian bergamot and coffee scent, his nocturnal scent, I felt the blush intensifying, and I think I may have smiled against my own will.
"Stop it, Aella," Tristan gasped, but it only made it worse. "Your ears are red, why are you bloody blushing at my dad for?"
Kicking him away, I managed to get free from his hands and glared at him, "He is beautiful, it's normal to blush around a beautiful men."
"I am beautiful," he snorted.
Well, that's audacious, "I said men, not boy."
"So, you're not denying that I'm beautiful?" His grin turned devilish and I cursed myself mentally.
"You're a generic kind of beautiful, not my type of beautiful. I don't find boys attractive, and you, Tristan De Vere Beauclerk, are a boy. In fact," I mocked, tying the lace of the robe around my waist, "I doubt you'll be able to overcome your shortcomings and become a men, even after you're 45."
That was enough to make him freeze.
With a victorious smug on, I turned to them, "I appreciate the robe, I... hope we won't need to talk about what happened again. I don't think I'll be able to speak of it," closing and opening my hands, I swallowed. "If possible, I want to forget this happened," then, I nodded to them as bye, and left the private living room, doing my best not to freak out again.
I don't think they realized, but my hand that I cut and both my feet were still bleeding and hurt, but I just ignored the pain and walked towards my room, not wanting to think about anything that happened.
When I got to my room, my feet was nearly killing me, on the flesh, and I was on my limit. As soon as my door was safely locked, I ran to the bathroom and vomited all I had been holding since Christian first touched me, and I hugged the porcelain toilet seat until I had vomited all I ate in the past week and my body was close to fainting again. Then came the worse part: showering.
Bathing would have been better because of my feet, in theory, but I never used this or any bathtub in my life, at least not that I remember, given my fear of water that makes me stay away from anything that contains a big quantity of water in a place. I've tried before, the bathtub, and I had a terrible panic attack. So, showering it is, just to make it all hurt everything more.
But as soon as I stepped into the shower on, I finally allowed my feelings to take over, desperately grabbing the soap and starting to scrub the blood and remains of my skin, roughly, nearly skinning myself alive. The more I scrubbed, the dirtier I felt, the more I cried. Every second I blinked, I could still feel Christian's filthy hands assaulting me as I screamed for him not to, I could still hear his voice and the disgusting things he said to me, the trauma still painfully fresh.
And when I remembered that he still has two identical twin brothers alive, who will definitely hunt me and Tristan down, and try to make a mess of our lives, I began to panic again, the sheer idea of looking in the face of two identical clones of Christian making my blood freeze. But this time, there was no one to hold me, no one to keep me from falling apart. No one but me.
Alone, as I've always been, and when those additional thoughts flooded my mind, another memory blinded me, making me drown in my lonely misery.
One word ringing in.
Unlovable.