29. Twenty Nine - Rebel

twenty nine - rebel

. . .

"My sweet little omega, you're all mine aren't you?" He strokes his hand down my bare side, oblivious to the churning in my gut and the tremble of my body. How doesn't he know what he's doing? Or does he not give a fuck? "You're so good at keeping our little secret from Everly, aren't you? Wasn't it so nice of her to take your needy ass in when your worthless family ditched you for the afterlife? I would hate for her to kick you out if she knew how dirty you were for me every night."

I want to cry. I want to scream, but I just lay there. I don't have any money, no job. If she kicks me out, I'll get dropped into another foster home, and the odds are it would be worse than this one. I almost wish he would hurry up and just get it over with. It's been weeks now. Every time he leaves, I scrub the life out of myself, disgusted by the feeling he leaves behind crawling beneath my skin. What did I do in this life for this to be the outcome?

"Answer me," he growls, his warm breath hitting my skin and sending shivers down my spine, but not the good ones. These aren't the shivers I get when I think about Drake, when I picture what it would be like to be with him.

Sometimes, I have to pretend it's him. I let go, shut away my mind, and think about Drake. He will never know it, but he gets me through every disgusting night I spend in his presence.

I nod because my voice won't work. Words don't form. They're lodged in my throat, strangling the oxygen trying to escape my lungs.

"You don't deserve anything more than this. You may have grown up with a silver spoon, little girl, but now you're worthless. Nothing but a warm hole for me to stick my cock into. That's all you'll ever be." A silent tear slips down my cheek. I wanted so much more in life, but this is where I am. A whore for an alpha who wouldn't care if I got killed tomorrow other than to worry about which warm hole he'll stick his repulsive cock into from now on.

He starts to moan as he rubs my naked body, and I slip into that space where I pretend what's happening is all a very bad nightmare, even though I know it's not. My mind drifts to Drake, to the gift he got me for my birthday earlier this week, to the kind words and the hug that followed as if he knew I needed it more than I needed my last breath.

I wish Drake was here. He didn't touch me until Drake left. Drake would've protected me. He's an alpha now. He could've been my alpha. I don't blame him for getting out, though. I don't blame him for grasping onto the dream of a better life and jumping in with both feet. I don't resent him for leaving me behind.

He's the only reason I haven't done something stupid, like make a cut I know I won't come back from. Drake is my sliver of hope in this darkness.

The silver little blade seems so appealing. It could take the pain all away. I've never considered taking my own life more than I have in the last two weeks. Every night, it's the same thing. Listening to the door squeak open. Listening to his heavy footsteps as he crosses my room to the bed. As he slips in behind me on the bed. As he runs his repulsive hands up and down my bare skin.

I know it's wrong, but I can't do anything to change it. I can't tell Drake. I can't take away his chance at freedom. The chance to walk away from being left behind as a kid. The chance to leave the reminder of being unwanted behind. The chance to be happy. He deserves it. But me? Maybe I'm unlovable. Maybe this is really as good as it gets for me.

A grunt sounds above me, and I know he's done. I breathe a sigh of relief. Another night I survived. For at least the next twelve hours. He says nothing as he lifts himself off me and walks away. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't kiss me sweetly.

Sometimes, he reminds me he'll see me tomorrow, and those words cut like a sharp knife in my chest, threatening to slice me open and let me bleed out.

Tonight, he simply closes the door behind him, leaving me to the twisted parts of my mind.

The ones that creep in and tell me that maybe I don't deserve anything more. That I am truly worthless.

Getting up slowly, I cringe at the pain. At least he didn't knot me this time. Those days are the worst. Not only is he here, but he's knotted to me for a god awful half an hour while I wait for it to deflate. At least I'm on birth control because the bastard has never once used a condom.

The night he took my virginity, he told me he liked the look of my blood on his cock. Who says that to a teenager? He does, apparently. Bile rushes up my throat, and I swallow it down like always. I stride across the room to my dresser and open the bottom drawer, pulling out Drake's old beat up t-shirt.

I stole a few from his room before he left. I needed a piece of him. I needed something to keep me in the present. I lift it up and squeeze it to me, pretending it's Drake instead of just a dingy little t-shirt. I cry into that shirt, soaking it, as I inhale his scent and let it wash over me.

Alone.

I'm so alone.

Tears stream down my cheeks, burning into my skin like fire, because tomorrow will come too soon, and I'll hate myself again. I'll hate him. How many more of these nights will I have to endure before the pleasure of ending it all overwhelms me.

I wake up screaming, skin coated in sweat as my eyes bounce over the room surrounding me, looking for the monster.

He isn't here. I'm okay. But am I really? Will this trauma ever go away or will I live with it for the rest of my life.

They've been kept at bay, the memories, since I met Tate. He seems to keep the nightmares from creeping in, but what happened to Nova brings everything back, front and center. She was hurt because of me, assaulted against her will like I was. I know what it's like. I lived through it.

My gut churns with guilt. I should've been there last night. I left her to fend for herself. God, she must hate me right now. I want to make sure she's okay, but I'm not sure I can look her in the eyes knowing what I did.

My throat is dry, and the likelihood of me going back to sleep decreases the longer I lay here. My eyes find Tate sleeping peacefully beside me. Air slips in and out through his mouth with a rasp, but I wouldn't describe it as a snore.

He didn't run. He pulled me out of my head when shit hit the fan. It's something I didn't want him to see. I didn't want him to know that I can't sleep some nights because I'm reminded of the shitty card I was dealt early in life. I can't sleep because an alpha decided the thought of breaking me was better than being respectful.

Tate's arms wrap around me and pull me in subconsciously. He reaches for me sometimes in his sleep like he knows exactly when I'm questioning things. Instead of fighting it, I let him pull me in. I rest my head against his chest and close my eyes, but every time, I see him .

For a few more minutes, I lay there, allowing the warmth of his arms to cocoon me.

I smile wanly at the man who's thrown my world off kilter, sleeping soundly, before carefully removing myself from his arms and sneaking out of his room.

As I move through the house, I note that it's not very bright outside. The windows tell me that it's no longer morning, but we haven't exactly made it to night time yet.

Making my way to the kitchen, I grab a glass from his cupboard and pour myself water from the fridge dispenser. It's cold and stings against my dry throat as I slurp it down like it's the last glass of water on Earth. I almost choke when it goes down the wrong pipe, but I manage to hold it in.

The urge to pee hits me, and I make my way towards the bathroom. It's not the one in his bedroom, but it's another full one. Turning on the sink, I splash water on my face before daring to look at my reflection in the mirror

I'm covered in an oversized t-shirt that definitely belongs to Tate. I don't remember putting it on after the shower, so he must have dressed me in it. I lift the collar to my nose and inhale the faint chocolatey scent of him mixed with laundry detergent.

He doesn't deserve to deal with someone like me. My shoulders drop in defeat, and it makes me look weak, pathetic. He keeps telling me he's not going anywhere, but how can he want this, me?

I take in my face, the hollow and emptiness filling my eyes. The bags under my eyes. The smeared makeup I didn't take off before I showered. I look like shit, like someone took a two by four to my body. I feel bruised, and the cuts on my inner thighs sting when they rub against each other, but it's a reminder that, once again, I'm here.

I'm alive.

Despite the fact that I probably shouldn't be.

Anxiety paints its way across my features. Fear clings to my skin, leaving an acrid taste in my mouth. It's been years, and it still creeps in and wrecks me time and time again.

I fucking hate it.

I hate the feeling of not being good enough.

I hate the feeling of being helpless.

I hate that I question everything.

"You're thinking too much. Do I need to get you focused on something else?" How long has he been standing there? Did he witness me questioning myself, feeling like a loser.

My eyes snap to Tate's through the mirror. His biceps flex, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the door frame. One foot propped up against the other one like he's not the sexiest thing I've ever seen. His chest is bare.

Why does he look so perfect?

Solid pecs.

Defined abs.

A scribble above his heart grabs my attention, and I squint, hoping that will help me see it better.

He notices where my attention is drawn and sidles closer to me. The words come into view. My Rebel is tattooed in a script font. I want to turn around.

My fingers itch to touch it, but I refrain. He's branded himself with my name. Why didn't I notice that before now?

The skin around it is red and puffy as if it's new, but when did he have time to get it?

"You like it?" he whispers in my ear, reaching out to touch me like he's as desperate to feel my skin against his as I am. His muscular arms frame me against the sink.

"When?"

He smiles. "Earlier."

I tilt my head, analyzing him. "When did you leave?"

"I didn't." He shrugs nonchalantly. "Had my guy come here." His lips tip up into his typical smirk. Of course, he has a tattoo artist on call. He would.

"Why?"

"You needed to see it branded onto me. You needed to know I wasn't going to run. I'm not going anywhere. I'm in this Rebel. One hundred percent. We can fight whatever demons you have together."

I sigh as my eyes once again find my disheveled reflection. "You deserve better than a broken girl."

"Then let me fix you. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to be cherished and reminded daily that you are perfect. We all have flaws, and yours are fucking beautiful to me. We can be broken together. I don't want someone who's normal. Okay? I just want you. What do I have to do for you to believe me?" A tear forms in my eyes at his sweet words. Where did my domineering, asshole alpha run off to? And who is this sweet one?

He sighs, grabbing my shoulders and turning me so I face him straight on. "Maybe this will help." Reaching for the waistband of his pants, he starts to pull them down.

I shake my head, reaching out to try and stop him. "Tate, I'm not really in the mood."

"Just wait." The movement continues, the sweats he's wearing slip over his hips and down his muscular thighs. Another piece of skin, red and puffy, slips into view like the one on his chest. Is that a…

There's a tattoo in the spot right above his cock that holds three words. "For Rebel only."

My eyebrows raise in amazement. "You tattooed your dick for me?"

"Don't you realize I'd do anything for you?" I swallow, but I can't make any words come out. I want to cry. No one has ever gone to these levels to try and convince me that we're meant to be.

The only question in my mind slips out. "Didn't that hurt?"

"Like a motherfucker." He smirks and a small smile forms on my lips.

This alpha.

My alpha.

"I think you're beautiful." He holds my gaze as he says it to me like maybe it'll sink if I'm focused on his words.

I scoff. "If this," I point to my face, "is your idea of what beautiful looks like, then I suggest checking in with your eye doctor. Because if looking like I've been beaten to within an inch of my life is beautiful, then maybe you should get that gorgeous head of yours checked while you're at it."

"For your information, my eyesight is twenty-twenty. And… don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't talk down about my omega," he growls.

I quirk an eyebrow. "Yours?"

"Fuck yes, you're mine. And I'll have to take it personally if you continue to tear yourself down. How can you not see how strong you've become. You may have nightmares, and your mind may crawl into the dark spaces you've yet to share with me, but you haven't been defeated, Rebel. You're still here. You're still breathing. When I look at you, I see incredible strength. You're an omega who didn't cow down and take the easy way out, even though I'm sure you've thought about it. " Reaching out, his thumb brushes against the ragged bagginess under my eyes. He sighs. "Will you tell me?"

I swallow hard. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me what I walked into earlier. Tell me, what pain was so bad, what memory hit so hard, that you felt you had to take it away by making cuts in this creamy smooth skin?"

My gaze rakes over his face, the sincerity of the question, of his concern blazing in those topaz orbs before he pulls me in close, smooshing me against his body.

His lips skim my forehead, leaving behind a soft kiss. "You can talk to me. Please, just talk to me. Let me in, even if it's hard." There's a begging lilt to his voice like he's desperate for me to just let him in.

I clear my throat, preparing to lay it all out for him. "You sure you really want to know? Because there's no going back once I tell you."

"I want to know everything there is to know about you, Rebel."

I sigh. "You remember me telling you about Drake and how he left to go play pro, right?"

"Yeah…" He pauses, politely waiting for me to continue.

"A few weeks after he moved out, my foster mother moved her new boyfriend in with us. I know for a fact that's not supposed to happen in foster situations, but like most people, she was only in it for the money. Not that she even got much…"

I can't make eye contact with him over the next part. "He…" I choke up as memories consume me. Bile creeps up my throat at the thought of telling him. He'll be the first person I've ever told about those three years in that house.

I take a deep breath before I speak. "Every night, he'd sneak into my room. He'd tell me how I was worthless. How I didn't deserve the kindness my foster mother had shown me by taking me in. How I was just a worthless omega hole for him to use. He took everything from me when he tried to break me. In fact, he almost won that battle. He almost did break me. I can't tell you how many times I…" A tear slides down my cheek. "How many times I looked at that blade and thought that maybe ending it would be easier than living to tell about it. I remember praying that night didn't fall some days. I wanted the light to stay out because he never came to me in the light of day. It was only at night. He was a monster. Well, my first monster."

His arms wrap around me tighter as if he knows I'm on the verge of breaking down again. He's holding me up, being my stronghold as I face the memories I've fought so hard to lock away after all these years.

"I need his name." I shake my head. I haven't used his name in years. Giving him a name means that it was real. He growls. "A name, Rebel." His voice is gruff and angry.

Knowing he won't give this up until I give him what he wants, I whisper it. "Jeffrey Beckleman. What will you do? You can't hurt him, Tate. That will put your career at stake, and I can't ask you to do that." My hands shake.

"Who said I was going to do anything? Having money means I have people for things I don't want to do."

I swallow and look up at him. "What's that mean?"

"It means I'm a part of an organization that helps omega's in need. Omega's in dangerous situations with alphas who think that because they're an alpha they can take and do what they want. Have you ever heard the name Salvation?"

I run the name through my brain. It sounds familiar, but I'm not exactly sure.

"What is it?"

"It's like an underground safe house. We hide omegas in trouble and dispose of the unsavory alphas."

I lick my lips nervously. "Dispose of?"

"It's exactly what you're thinking."

My heart is beating like a drum. How do they get away with that? Aren't people going to suspect things? "But don't people come looking for them?"

"Most of the time, no."

"So, what will they do with him ?"

"You probably don't want to know."

I nod my head because he's probably right. But I don't care, right? Not after he ruined me. Not after he took the thing that wasn't his to take from me.

He hugs me like he might have lost me. Like he still might. I embrace the moment, feeling his warmth against me, clinging to him. Enjoying just simply being.

I thought he'd reject me once he found out. I guess there's still time, but for once, I have hope that he's telling me the truth. That he's not going anywhere.