 by Dani Rene.jpg)
Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I ran from a life I knew, and found solace in the dark eyes of a stranger.
Memories burn me daily, but he seems to chase the pain away,
I can’t fall in love.
I can’t need him.
And when he offers me a new life,
I find that I can’t say no.
I’ve never forgotten him.
Years have passed, and he’s still my obsession.
I have always been lucky, and this time, my luck has run out.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
Time stills.
Moments pass.
But there’s no peace.
The tension that coils in my stomach is a serpent, readying its attack on my body. I watch his chest rise and fall from the corner where I’ve been huddled up. I don’t move. I can’t. The agony has riddled me motionless. It’s easier to hide.
His expression is peaceful. A calm, serene air surrounds him.
His body nothing more than the glassy top of a still lake, not a ripple in sight.
But it’s a lie.
There’s no peace when the slightest movement can bring war. He breathes, in and out, until those black lashes flutter open and his dark eyes pin me to the spot. It’s as if he’s someone else. And I believe he’s been overtaken by an alien force rather than admit he’s the man I love.
His legs swing over the edge of the sofa. Rogan doesn’t speak, because silence is more terrifying than the vile words he utters. He doesn’t see me. I’m nothing, but something all at the same time. I’m his solace, I’m his frustration, and as I watch him move about the room, I know I’ll soon be his punching bag.
Guilt weighs on me.
Sadness grips my heart.
And with each day that passes, I know no matter how many times the words ‘I’m sorry’ pass those lips, it will never be enough. Because in the same breath, he hisses, “You’re a stupid whore.”
ONE
CLOVER
It wasn’t the moment of impact that reminded me where I was.
Or why I’d chosen to go back to him, time and again.
It was the moment I lost all feeling in my face—my arms.
Each minute after felt like an eternity. I didn’t move. And he didn’t stop.
I didn’t breathe, yet he continued.
Angry. Feral. Animalistic.
The promises would come without a doubt, without fail. They were constant reminders of what happened the night before, but I overlooked them because the apologies were heartfelt. Surely, they were.
Isn’t this what love is about?
Standing by your man. Being there when he needs you the most. Unless those words my worthless mother uttered were wrong. You’d think I’d grown out of wanting someone to love me. Even after she was taken by cancer, stolen from me and my dad, I could tell my life wouldn’t be the same. Dad was there for me—he watched over me for years, ensuring I had all the love he had for me, but he was different. Detached. And then, he was taken from me. I still found myself searching for that one person who’d offer me what I so stupidly craved.
That’s how I landed in a dump of an apartment on the outskirts of New York where he was my only salvation.
But one day, something clicked in my mind. It’s as if someone had come in and flicked a switch. Perhaps it was the time he slammed my head against the wall. It was the last time he ever touched me. Because the next morning when he left for work, I ran.
The money that had been sitting in my bank account, without his knowledge, bought me the plane ticket. I had nothing else but the clothes on my back. There was no doubt where I’d go. I knew I couldn’t stay in the US, because he would track me down. So, I came to a country where I thought I could fly under the radar. I chose Ireland.
My father’s brother lives here in Ireland, and that’s how I find myself in a city called Belfast. It’s been a couple of months, yet I feel more at home here since I left my childhood home. When I did find my uncle, it was his assistant who helped me get into this place for rehabilitation. My uncle wasn’t even in the country, but she knew of me. He’d told her about me. And when I explained my plight, she made some calls.
Out of the shower, I stand in front of the mirror before I get dressed. I do this every morning and every evening. I have to bear witness to what I’ve been through. I haven’t touched any drugs in six months, and being clean isn’t easy, but I’m doing it. Granted, I’m forced to be good while in rehab. I’m able to focus on taking each day as it comes, rather than on the fear of being beaten every evening, or morning, or whenever he gets home.
There are other tokens of what I’ve been through. My body bears the scars of years of abuse. Some remain, but most of them are hidden. Deep within my tattered soul. It reminds me that hope is something fleeting, an emotion not worthy of my time.
And trust, that’s something I let go of a long time ago.
Love discarded me.
Love violated me.
And hope. That motherfucking bitch left me to rot.
I’m lucky, though, like my mother used to say. I will make it. I didn’t believe her back then, but now that I’m here, I think I truly am. Not many women get out of a situation like mine.