Red Moon Rising

33. broken

"You fucked up."

"Isaac, I'm—" I squeeze my eyes shut when he pulls a coffee mug from his desk and hurls it right at me, narrowly missing my face before it shatters against the wall. When he stalks toward me, I try to pull my limbs into action, but I'm too terrified to move. I take a step back, but his hand snakes out to grasp my neck, yanking me closer as his breath fans over my face.

His fingers flex into my neck, threatening to cut off air, before easing back again, like he is torn between strangling me and letting me live. I wrap my hands around his wrist and try to plead with him with my eyes, but he's looking through me, brow dark and furrowed. I can't catch myself when he shoves me back, driving me hard into the bed with his hand. The weight on my throat only lifts when he pulls his arm back, and I barely have enough time to throw my arms over my face before his fist collides against my wrists. Isaac pries my arm away, hands grappling at my chin. His next swing hits its mark, the back of a closed fist colliding with my cheek and sending white sparks skittering across my vision. When his hand comes down hard again, I feel a crunch against my skull followed by wet warmth sliding down my chin.

I taste blood dripping from my nose and lip as he pauses to take me in, eyes lingering to where he split my skin. The side of my face is numb and burning all at once, and I lay in stunned silence beneath him, waiting for his raised hand to crash into my face once again. His fingers tremble, itching to break me. All at once, Isaac pushes away from me, hands clenching into fists at his side.

"Go wash up and change."

I slowly push myself up on shaking arms, searching for words that refuse to come.

"Layla," he grits out, and his glare makes me weak. "Go now. Or I swear to god I will fucking kill you."

I tumble off of the bed at his words, ignoring the way his eyes follow me across the room. Closing the door to the bathroom, I lean against it and feel for any sign of a lock on the handle. Nothing. Who am I kidding—if Isaac wanted through this door he would break it down, lock or not. My breathing isn't coming right, jagged and sharp, and the warmth of blood is trickling over my chin onto the floor below.

"I don't hear water running."

I press the heel of my hand against my mouth to try to stop the sob that spills out, but there's nothing I can do. I crank the faucet until the bathroom fills with the overwhelming rush of water. I don't want to take my clothes off when he's out there. In my hurry I didn't even find something else to change into. Glancing quickly at the mirror, I wince away from my own image, mouth red with blood and nose offset ever so slightly. I gingerly press my fingers to my nose and regret it instantly as pain fans over my cheeks. My right eyelid is swollen and growing dark, and I have no doubt that it will look much worse before it gets better. Maybe he'll even give me another black eye to match.

I don't want to make Isaac barge in here to check on me, so I peel away my damp clothes and let them fall with a slap to the floor. I press a washcloth against my nose as I slip into the shower, hoping somehow that the bleeding will stop. Somehow, I feel like it will make him angrier if I'm still bleeding by my fucking face when I go back out there. God I don't want to go back out there. When he said that he would kill me, I believed him, and I don't want to find out if he still feels the same way when I walk through that door.

The shower, at least, helps to work feeling back into my freezing limbs, and it slows the rabbit's pace of my heart to where I don't feel like I'm going to pass out. When I am clean and warm, I decide to turn off the water of my own accord rather than make him tell me to do it. My nose is still bleeding when I wring out my hair and wrap myself in a towel. The trembling seeps easily back into my limbs, but I draw in two deep breaths and open the door to Isaac's room just enough that I can call out to him.

"I forgot to grab clothes," I say quietly, and I hear him shifting from his seat on the bed.

"Come out here."

Is his voice soft from anger or remorse? If I hesitate, will all that anger come rushing back to him? I push through the door, letting the chill of the room raise goosebumps on my arm as Isaac's eyes wander over me. He's sitting on the bed, elbows pressing into his knees, and his face is so horribly dark. But his breathing isn't erratic and quick like it was before, and it's that fact that I latch onto when he holds his hand out to me. "Just come here, Layla."

I obey wordlessly, holding my towel tightly with one hand as the other presses the bloody washcloth to my nose. His hands slip over my hips and pull me to him, and I'm thankful when I don't cry despite my deep desire to do just that.

"Let me see." He reaches for my hand holding the washcloth, and I reluctantly let him pull it aside to better look at my damaged face. "Is it broken?"

"I think so."

Isaac pulls me into his lap and wraps his arms around me, lips pressing into my shoulder briefly before he drops his forehead to it. How much more broken would I be if Isaac hadn't told me to leave when he did? If this was him showing restraint, what is he like without it?

"I shouldn't have hit you," he breathes finally, an admission so soft I barely hear it. He doesn't try to tell me that it won't happen again. "And you shouldn't have tried to run."

"I shouldn't have had to run." I regret the words when his arms tense around me, but Isaac only raises his head to look at me.

"You don't get to just fucking go like that. What the hell am I to you?"

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I was afraid."

"Of me?"

"Yes."

"Then you shouldn't have done that."

"So if I wanted to leave, you would have driven me into town yourself?"

Isaac is quiet for a long time, lips brushing absentmindedly against my shoulder as he looks up at me. "Don't fucking push me right now, Layla."

"You can't apologize and threaten me at the same time."

"I never apologized." He pushes me off of his lap, and fear thrums quick through my stomach. He stands in front of me, fingers tight in my arms as he holds me at a distance. "And I'm not going to."

"Okay," I say finally. "Okay. Please just explain something to me?"

"What, Layla."

"Are you forcing me to stay here? I need to hear an exact answer."

"You belong here, don't you see that? Where else do you have to go?"

"That's not an answer." Home, I think. I could go home.

Isaac's frown deepens and he lets go of me to move to the dresser. I watch his turned back as he pulls out items of clothing I've accumulated during my time here, a flannel and leggings, wooly socks, the purple bra and underwear that I know he likes best. He holds it all out to me with a look that is equal parts cold and burning. "Get dressed. We're going to have your nose looked at."

"Isaac..."

"Fucking hell," he growls, tossing the clothes onto the bed. "Don't you know when to shut up?"

I think I'm learning. I think I'm figuring it out. I do my best to grab the clothes without dropping the towel or the washcloth, slipping into the bathroom before he can tell me not to. My nose has finally stopped bleeding enough that I can change without worrying about getting blood all over my clothes. God it makes me sick to slip the underwear over my hips. It's a promise, for later, I have no doubt in my mind. How am I supposed to say no to him? Is that something I still get to do? I think I know the answer, as much as it makes me sick. The realization hits hard and unforgiving in my gut that I truly, desperately, do not want to live like this. Glancing up quickly at the hard rap of knuckles on the door, I fumble with the last buttons on my flannel and breathe deep until the tears aren't quite as imminent.

"Let's go, Layla."