The cruiser's leather seats pressed cold against my thighs, their faint creak a jarring reminder of a world beyond my trembling hands. Jonathan tapped at his phone beside me, his broad frame a warm anchor in the dim interior, but my phone felt like a lead brick as I fished it from my pocket, fingers quaking so fiercely the screen blurred like a storm cloud. My breath caught, snagged on a name I couldn't outrun—Rector, son of Rohkard.
No matter how I dodged it, muttering "that man" or cursing him silently, his name clawed back, seared into my memory like a brand. It was absurd, a grunt of a name from some savage epic, but that bastard had chained me to him in a marriage that was all shackles, no love.
Rector didn't just carve his name into me; his relentless assaults on my body left deeper scars. His orcish pride, tethered to that grotesque, log-sized cock, haunted my skin like a ghost. I was a giant among my kind—compact, muscled, strong—but to him, I was a dwarf, too tight, too small for his monstrous desires.
His dick couldn't force its way in, no matter how he tried, and his thick fingers, blunt as clubs, were just as useless. A shiver sliced up my spine, sharp as frost, as I recalled the searing agony when he'd jammed his pinky inside, his predatory grunts filling our dingy apartment like a beast's roar. It wasn't a joke—it was violation, raw and merciless, etching invisible wounds that throbbed with every memory.
When he realized I couldn't be his sex toy, his rage twisted into exploitation. "Unusable hole," he'd spat, the word dripping venom, as if my body's defiance was a personal insult. To make up for it, he forced me to slave—endless hours, muscles burning, spirit ground to dust—to bankroll his freeloading.
The audacity of that filth, berating me for Dawson-11, a business I clawed from nothing, nearly smothered my fear with a flare of defiance. His voice, thick with contempt, still rang in my ears, demanding money, food, control, as if I were his property, not a person.
Building Dawson-11 was my quiet rebellion, stitched together from grainy online tutorials and nights so sleepless they blurred into years. Starting a convenience store to challenge giants like Martell's was lunacy, but Rector left me no choice. Part-time gigs—waitressing in greasy diners, scrubbing floors, stocking shelves—stole my rest, each shift a battle to keep going.
Every shelf I filled, every ledger I balanced with trembling hands, was a shout that I was more than his "money engine." Yet his abuse—fists that left purple blooms, words that cut deeper, stalking that shadowed my every step—bound me to a life where rights felt like fairy tales.
Jonathan's arrival was a miracle, a spark of light I didn't dare hope for. Maybe Ophelia, the goddess of light, heard my silent screams, guiding him to Dawson-11's flickering neon sign. No ordinary man could've faced Rector, a four-hundred-pound orc heir of Rohkard, his lineage fueling a strength that shattered wood and bone. I'd braced for death when his hammer-fist roared past, missing my face by a whisper, splintering the counter into a jagged graveyard of splinters. My heart thundered, as if I'd stolen a life from my future self. Then
Jonathan—lean, human, impossibly brave—kicked him square in the balls, not once but twice, crushing the one thing that dick-brained brute prized. The image, absurdly triumphant, coaxed a faint laugh from my chest, a defiant spark now that I was beyond his reach, safe in the cruiser's confines.
Fear still gripped me, my body quivering in the cruiser's dim glow, but that laugh, rising from some stubborn corner of my soul, felt like the Sky who'd once dreamed of freedom. The red and blue cruiser lights pulsed through the tinted windows, their steady rhythm calming my ragged breaths. Jonathan's warmth, his meaty bicep brushing my arm as he shifted, grounded me like a tether.
Rector had muscle too, slabs that delivered pain, not solace. Jonathan was his opposite—his deep emerald eyes soft with worry, his voice a gentle hum, asking about my safety, not my profits.
"You okay, Sky?" he asked, his tone cutting through the cruiser's faint scent of coffee and polished vinyl, a lifeline in the haze. His concern draped over me like a warm shawl, but it scared me too. Leaning on him, letting his kindness fill my cracks, felt like trading one chain for another, softer but still binding. I nodded faintly, my chestnut hair slipping over my shoulder, catching the light as I squeezed his hand, my fingers still icy against his steady warmth.
"I'm… better," I whispered, my voice brittle, nearly lost in the engine's drone. The city blurred past—neon signs flickering, arcane streetlights casting blue halos, hover-cars weaving through the morning mist. Jonathan's quiet strength made me want to believe in healing, but Rector's shadow loomed, his name a dark tide threatening to drag me under. Even bound, even unconscious, he was a storm biding its time, and I dreaded his return, fiercer than before.
"Drink some more water," Jonathan said, handing me the bottle from earlier, its contents nearly gone. I mustered the strength to gulp the last drops, the cool liquid steadying me as I refocused on my phone.
A wild impulse flickered—maybe he wouldn't mind. Angling my phone discreetly, I snapped a covert photo of myself clinging to his arm, his profile just visible on the screen. My dark, baggy eyes stared back, etched with exhaustion, but for the first time in months, I felt a fleeting peace, as if I could rest without fear, even for a moment.
At the station, after testifying…
The station's sterile air—sharp with antiseptic and old paper—clashed with the weight of my testimony, each word about Rector's abuse feeling like a stone lifted from my chest. Jonathan hovered nearby, his presence a quiet shield, wary of leaving me alone.
"You shouldn't go back to Dawson-11," he said, his voice low, thoughtful. "It's a sore spot now. And your apartment… it might haunt you. Got any friends who can take you in for a while?"
His consideration stunned me. No one had ever thought so far ahead for my safety, not in years. Gratitude swelled, tinged with disbelief. "I'll… ask," I murmured, my voice steadier now. He nodded, excusing himself to grab snacks, but I knew it was a kind lie to give me space in this safe, beige-walled room to reach out to my friends.
SeventyLeven: [ hey girls, can I bunk with one of you for a few days ]
nice_ice_bby: [ what happened?? are you okay?? ]
meiflowa: [ did your husband try something stupid again ]
TeachingFeeling: [ Thank you for reaching out to us, we'll try to help however we can! ]
Seeing them all light up and immediately offering their support in different ways made me crack a smile.
SeventyLeven: [ yeah he tried to kill me but I got saved by a guy, so its okay, called the police for me n everything ]
nice_ice_bby: [ ohmygosh he didn't do anything to you did he??? I'm going to press charges!! ]
meiflowa: [ ik i got that mfer's full government name somewhere he ain't living in prison for sure ]
TeachingFeeling: [ I can't even begin to imagine the fear and stress, I will support you with whatever you need ;^; ]
SeventyLeven: [ yeah we got him locked up after finding lots of incriminating things in the apartment alongside the charges i pressed against him so its okay, the guy that helped me said i should stay over one of my friends' house in the mean time just in case though ]
meiflowa: [ let's do a weekend staycation at my place then ]
nice_ice_bby: [ that's nice! i should be able to be there by evening! ]
TeachingFeeling: [ I'll make it work, so just send me the details! ]
meiflowa: [ i got a guy that can drive us, so we should be fine ]
meiflowa: [ sky i'll pick you up where u at ]
SeventyLeven: [ im at the police station, the guy's waiting for me to get picked up by someone I trust ]
meiflowa: [ ain't he nice, ight im omw ]
nice_ice_bby: [ Stay safe, you two, I'll be there at the staycation! ]
TeachingFeeling: [ Drive safe! Can't wait to see you guys again <3 ]
My phone pinged with replies—friends offering their couches, their homes, for as long as I needed. Relief washed over me, a rare lightness, knowing I wouldn't face Rector's den alone. I glanced at Jonathan, fiddling with his phone across the room, his brow furrowed in focus. Curiosity tugged, and I leaned slightly, catching a glimpse of his screen. My breath caught.
He was chatting with Yulia, her username, nice_ice_bby, as clear as day. A pit opened in my stomach, a tangle of emotions I couldn't name. Jealousy? Insecurity? I had no right to feel anything, yet the ache was there, sharp and unbidden. Jonathan sensed my gaze, turning with a small, reassuring smile that softened his rugged features.
"Gotten in touch with someone?" he asked, his smooth voice a balm, nothing like Rector's nasally, rage-soaked bellows. The contrast steadied me, pulling me back from the pit. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Yeah… I've got a place to stay," I said, my voice soft but firm, a spark of the Sky who'd built Dawson-11 from nothing. His smile widened, and for a moment, I let myself believe I could rebuild.
"I'll stay until you get picked up, then." He'd smile, passing me another water bottle and a freshly steamed bun, heavy in my palm. It must be filled with a lot of meat and juices.