Bound to my Enemy Chapter 126

That he understood my body well enough to push it to the brink over and over.

God!.

I press my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound that tries to claw its way out.

I hate that part the most, not that he denied orgasms but that I wanted him to stop and didn’t at the sa ti, that even while I was angry, my body atill responded to him.

The conflict makes my stomach twist.

I splash cold water onto my face but it doesn’t help. My skin still feels too sensitive.

I scrub at my cheeks like I can erase the evidence.

"This isn’t healthy," I whisper to my reflection.

The girl staring back at looks unsure.i slide down the cabinet slowly until I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, my back against the wood and knees pulled to my chest.

He scared yesterday.

But today?

Today he reminded that he holds all the power in this house. And I foolishly let him.

After a long ti...long enough that my breathing steadies and my eyes stop burning... I force myself up and I wash my face properly this ti, brush my hair back while trying to avoid looking at the marks on my wrists.

When I finally unlock the door and step back into the bedroom, it’s quiet.

The bed is rumpled as I left it but the cuffs are gone from it

He’s gone and for a mont, I just stand there, part of expected him to be waiting, to argu or justify whatever reason he did that for.

Instead, there’s nothing.

I walk to the bed slowly, like I’m moving through water, and crawl back under the covers, the sheets still sll like him and that breaks sothing in all over again.

I curl onto my side and pull the blanket up to my chin.

And I cry.

Just quiet, exhausted tears that soak into the pillow.

I stay in bed longer than I an to.

At first it’s because I feel wrung out. Then it’s because I don’t want to mistakenly see him, then it turns into sothing uglier....self-pity curling up in my chest, trying to make a ho there.

I jut lay in bed staring up at the ceiling until the white starts to blur.

No.

I’m not doing this.

I’m not going to lie here and replay it over and over like I’m so fragile thing that needs to be handled carefully. I made choices and he made his. And if I don’t like the position I’m in, then I change it.

With that thought in mind I get up and throw the covers back and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body protests, my muscles heavy, wrists faintly sore....but I ignore it. I walk into the closet but I don’t reach for one of his shirts this ti.

I pull on black leggings, a fitted tank top. Then I grab one of the zip-up hoodies that’s actually mine nd I tie my hair into a tight ponytail, with no loose strands.

If I’m going to live in this house, in this world, then I refuse to be the one constantly protected and corrected.

I step into the hallway and I thank god when I don’t see Zane.

I head toward Aaron’s wing. It takes a minute to rember the layout. This house is too big, with too many corridors and too many rooms.

It takes almost ten minutes of walking before I hear it... the rhythmic thud of fists hitting a heavy bag.

I follow the sound.

To find a training room that slls like rubber mats, tal and sweat. It’s colder than the rest of the hous with fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead.

Aaron stands in the middle of the room, shirtless, his fists wrapped, driving punches into a black heavy bag suspended from the ceiling.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud-thud.

His shoulders flexing with each hit.

I stop just inside the doorway and watch him for a second. I see him hit the bag and wince, that’s when I see the bruises. There’s a dark purple bloom along his ribs, another near his shoulder, another along his jaw and his knuckles are split open again.

My stomach twists because I know so of this bruises are because of .

He senses before I can take another step in. His punches slow....then stop as he turns his head slightly and spots in the reflection of the wall mirror.

His expression hardens, eh doesn’t smile or greet like he usually does.

He steps back from the bag and unwraps one hand slowly, eyes on the entire ti.

"You shouldn’t be down here," he says flatly.

"Neither should you," I reply.

His jaw ticks.

For a mont, I think he might tell to leave. Instead, he walks to the bench against the wall and grabs a towel, wiping his face but he doesn’t invite in and doesn’t ask what I want.

So I walk further into the room anyways...up close, the bruises look worse.

"What did he do?" I ask quietly.

Aaron lets out a short breath through his nose. "Don’t even."

"I’m asking."

"And I’m telling you not to."

There’s an edge in his voice I’ve never heard before.

I swallow.

"I’m sorry," I say.

He doesn’t respond.

"I an it," I push. "If I hadn’t left....."

"You did leave." He looks at then. Fully. "We knew the risks."

"I know."

"And I was to be responsible for you.

I flinch at that. "I’m not a package you have to take care of."

"In this house?" His laugh is humorless. "You are."

The words sting, but I don’t argue.

"I didn’t think it would go that far," I say. "With him and with you."

Aaron studies for a long mont. Sothing flickers behind his eyes....anger, yes, but not fully directef at .