8. Lia

8

LIA

I crawled into Mason's bed beside him so that I could snuggle close, as carefully as possible, worried that I might break him, the same as I worried that the lack of touch might kill me.

—Sarah, from One of a Thousand Wishes by A. R. McGeorge

E very morning I texted my driver to come pick me up, right before the doors of Corvo Enterprises officially opened.

And every morning I went home, showered, and did the exact same thing—I stood facing away from my long mirror, craning my neck back to see what was left of Rhaim's handprints on my ass, frustrated that they were slowly disappearing.

As the days counted down, I was worried the handprints were all I had left of him.

I bruised incredibly easily, inside and out, just like my mother.

Unlike her, however, I was still alive, despite some of my best efforts along the way.

And while I wanted to think that she wasn't here anymore because she wasn't as strong as I was—after all, I had lived through the things that had apparently driven her to an overdose—it was probably also fair to say that I was just less good at suicide.

When push came to shove, when razors came to wrists, I'd lacked the total commitment it required.

And why was that?

Rhaim Selvaggio.

The same man who wanted me to clean Corvo's toilets was the same man who'd saved my life.

My father had been pissed when his people had discovered Rhaim's departure through an out-of-the-office autoresponder, and even more so when he realized it might interfere with an upcoming deal's timing. And then he'd found out what I was doing—he'd yelled at me, and then yelled about how he was going to go yell at Rhaim, and I didn't have a way to stop him.

I felt completely helpless—I couldn't warn Rhaim, and I didn't even know if he'd care if I did.

I hadn't quit going in, though.

I'd been given a job, and I was going to do it.

And my father hadn't mentioned anything again, which was good, because if he'd asked me what I was doing with my time now, I wouldn't have known how to lie to him.

It was funny how the truths trapped inside you moved at different speeds—how some would squeeze your throat shut before you could ever speak them, while others you couldn't stop yourself from saying, no matter how hard you tried.

I had one sad truth that haunted me like my own shadow and that made me scared of the dark at twenty-three.

And one white hot truth that had given me a reason to cut perpendicular instead of parallel—the fact that I had wanted Rhaim, ever since I was thirteen.

When he'd actually seen me.

And maybe if I'd been a little less sheltered or a little more prone to introspection—maybe if someone else had ever given a shit or I'd gone to better therapy—I wouldn't be the woman I'd become.

I knew it was wrong, but it was vastly too late.

I loved him.

Possibly not in a good way.

Like cancer needs a body.

Like a bullet needs a gun.

And even though it was humiliating that he'd entirely forgotten me, it hadn't changed a single feeling for me in my mind.

I even managed to convince myself that perhaps it was for the best.

Because when he did return—he had to, he couldn't leave me, and he couldn't leave Corvo—maybe I could pretend to come into a relationship with him naturally, rather than him ever questioning why I was obsessed.

It didn't matter which boarding school I went to. Anywhere I'd been forced to share rooms with other girls, the one universal constant was that everyone's walls had posters of hot guys—mostly soccer players I didn't recognize or singers I didn't think much of.

I always put up a few too, so I could pretend to be normal. I didn't want to stand out more than I already did; being the new kid at several schools in quick succession sucked bad enough.

But on the rare occasions when I had safe, quiet time in my rooms by myself, when the other girls were out with their boyfriends, girlfriends, or smoking weed down the hall—Rhaim was the only man I ever dreamed about.

So every morning, after I bemoaned the state of my fading bruises, I'd get to work on polishing my vibrant memories, practically crawling into bed with my hand or a toy between my thighs.

The only upshot of working nights was that it meant I didn't need my nightlights on. There was plenty of ambient light, which meant it was safe for me to close my eyes and pretend. I would trace myself until I had a hard time catching my breath, and then roll over with my arm trapped beneath me, imagining him riding behind me, grinding my fingers until I came.

And then I would lie there, lightly sweaty, dreaming of what would've happened if my catsuit had torn and let Rhaim plunge his fingers in me fully—like I had known he'd wanted to—certain of just one thing: that I hadn't risked myself and my sanity to give up on being with him now.