Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (young adult books to read TXT) 📗

A tiny whimper escaped him, like air being let out of an annoying yet evil balloon.

“You saw Briar as damaged and weak. But she’s far fucking stronger than you. That’s why she doesn’t have to manipulate people to get laid, you tiny dicked fucker.” Punctuating my point, I hauled my foot back and kicked him in his crotch.

Another sharp exhale from the sick bastard.

“She would never have fallen for your bullshit. She’s too smart for that.” Going Briar on him, I kicked his shin as hard as I could. And then I stepped on it until I could feel and hear it crack.

I rounded the body, grabbing what I needed off the island before circling back. Crouching in front of him, I watched the tears stream from his eyes.

I didn’t miss it. All the business cards and evidence had been burned. I didn’t dig around hard drives while I worked. It was easy to be finished because killing people wasn’t an itch I had to scratch. It’d been my way of doing what I thought was right.

My own twisted moral compass.

But I couldn’t deny that staring into his eyes while he died was going to be satisfying. He’d tried to destroy my flower. She’d shown him her wilting stem, and he’d maliciously twisted it.

Too bad for him that she had me.

I was her sun. I made her live for me because I sure as shit lived for her.

And no one was changing that.

I took the cap off the needle. “This is for the others. The ones who aren’t as strong. Who are alone and vulnerable, making it easy for you to prey on them.”

Rapid breathing and more tears. More soft noises—the only thing he was capable of doing besides feeling pain and terror.

The same two things he’d purposefully inflicted.

“I promised Briar I’d tell you.” I jabbed the needle into his vein. “This is for Jenna.”

And then I pushed the plunger in.

Briar

For closure

I HAVE TO stop pacing.

I’m making the animals nervous.

I paused long enough to check my phone before starting again.

The chickens paced with me, walking back and forth inside their run. Mister trotted along, too, splitting his focus between me and the chicken he wanted to eat. He was so strong, I wasn’t sure I could hold him back if he went for them. Thankfully, he didn’t make me find out.

He was a good boy.

And the chicks were good chicks.

Life would be perfect as soon as Alexander came home to me. When it was done.

I checked the time again. It felt like weeks since I’d left the center, not hours. My thoughts hadn’t stopped, more memories and realizations racing to the forefront of my mind.

Smacking me in the face with the clues I hadn’t put together.

When Derrick had moved in close after our group session, I’d smelled it. Just a hint. A subtle waft. But that was exactly the amount I’d needed to identify the scent I knew down to my churning stomach and worst nightmares.

Chanel Nº 5.

I hadn’t recognized it in such concentrated volumes in the apartment building hallway, especially since it was mixed with so many other scents. But I’d recognized it then. My mother’s perfume.

And he’d known that.

I’d shared it during therapy. How the smell disgusted me. How it was a sensory trigger to previous trauma.

I’d tried to come up with some other explanation. To give him the benefit of the doubt. But then he’d confirmed my horrible suspicion.

By trying to turn my can’ts into cans.

I’d only heard that bargain bin motivational bullshit from one other person.

Once I figured that out, everything else came together like the worst kind of puzzle.

All his well-meaning talks that’d left me feeling like shit. The way he’d constantly startle me even though he knew I hated it. His affable questions that he knew would trigger my anxiety as surely as a threat. The way he would inadvertently pick and poke at my biggest anxieties, tugging at the loose threads of my sanity until I’d been ready to unravel.

The coupons.

The catalogs.

The fake past due notices.

Like he’d ripped a page from a bad pickup artist’s self-help book, he wanted to make me feel like shit so I was desperate enough to sleep with him.

I trusted him—well, as much as I was capable of trusting anyone other than Aria and Alexander.

He was supposed to listen to my worries and fears and anxieties in order to help.

Instead, he’d abused his position in order to weaponize my vulnerabilities against me.

I should’ve known better. Or suspected something. After all, I knew how evil people could be—even the ones who were supposed to be caregivers.

But apparently I wasn’t as cynical as I thought. It hadn’t occurred to me that Derrick would use his training to manipulate me. He’d expertly toed the line, making sure to never cross it. That way if I reported him, he was just the concerned counselor and I was the troubled patient.

He’d messed up, though. He’d assumed I was weak enough—desperate enough—to fall for it.

He’d underestimated me.

I’d survived bitchier than a sad-eyed dickhead.

After telling him everything I suspected, Alexander had broken into Derrick’s house to find the spam mail templates, the ominous red stamps, and notes.

Detailed notes about triggers and weaknesses and what methods might work.

Not just for me, either.

For others. For Jenna.

Her crush hadn’t been on Jared, it’d been on Derrick. He’d pulled her strings like a marionette to make it happen. And then he’d thrown her away to move on to a new puppet.

Me.

I was certain that was why she’d texted so often to ask what I’d do, say, or wear—to get his attention back. He’d manipulated her into relying solely on his validation, and when she’d no longer gotten it, she’d fallen apart.

I was luckier, even though I wasn’t sure how much damage he’d caused me. How far he’d set my recovery back. And, honestly, I didn’t care. If I wasn’t fucked up, maybe I wouldn’t have started dating my stalker.

And that was an