Young Writers Society

Nyssa and Viggo are on the run from Nyssa's fiancé, a cop who framed Viggo for murder. They are talking about the diary Nyssa kept while living with him.

To know more, read Chapter 11.1.

“It leaked,” she repeated more forcefully. She clicked on a link at random and a blog-like thing filled the screen. “Wow, she copied every damn entry with the pics. Must have taken some doing.” She clicked on another and brought up an article for the Huff. Snorting at the title, she said, “Read that, Viggo? I’m a damn incarnation – incarnation, you hear? – of every beaten wife out there.” She clicked on another and she was on Twitter, seeing dozens of pictures of strangers holding signs where you could read ‘REMEMBER NYSSA’or ‘NEVER AGAIN’. “And I’m a damn trend too. A fad. Can you believe it?”

She clicked on another link and, this one, she couldn’t even remark upon. It was a shrine. A damn shrine. Some sick stranger had created a public shrine to her. What disturbed her most was that he had obviously pilfered photos from her Facebook account. There were some of her at public events with Levowsky, of course – she had seen those on TV more than once, but there were personal pictures too. She rolled down the page. Here she was at the zoo. Here she was still in college attending a party. Here she was only a little girl – costumed. Here she was…

She froze.

Viggo’s birthday party. They were on the dance-floor. They were slow-dancing in the middle of Mac’s. Her breath caught thinking back to…Never mind. She was careful not to look at Viggo, but she could feel him. Their shoulders were touching. Their…

Damn it.

Damn it all to hell and back.

On the picture, she was wearing a billowing skirt, crimson red – quite out of character for her – and he had stuffed himself into an expensive suit, which he had spent the whole night tugging at and complaining about. Angela had insisted, arguing that the party was also a belated celebration for their engagement. Angela herself didn’t appear in the picture. Only Viggo and Nyssa were clearly in focus. The rest of the crowd was a faceless blur.

They were smiling – well, he was smiling, and she was outright laughing.

She wondered why. It had certainly been something light and cheerful because she looked so young and happy in the picture, so free. Her body was relaxed, at ease, held tenderly but a safe distance away. Why was she laughing? She tried to remember but it felt like she could have drilled into her brains until they were red mush and, still, the reason would have eluded her. Like their past friendship did.

She wouldn’t let herself be sucked into the memory. Or the misery. She pushed them firmly away and scrolled down some more. Got to the picture of Russ and her. Let out an inarticulate sob.

It was only a few months old. They were at Fearley’s wedding. She was smiling but there were secrete shadows to her eyes, now. She’d had to make an effort for the sake of the photographer, this time. Russ had been cross with her. Earlier, he had decided that she was flirting with another guest – she had only been looking at the man! But he had intimated that she was going to pay. His eyes had flashed at her and his lips had formed this genuinely pleased but nonetheless twisted smile.

When he was pleased with her, his hand was on her nape and it felt like a collar. But he hadn’t been pleased. His hold on her arm seemed casual enough but she remembered, just looking at it, his grip, the pressure just above the elbow, in this special place he knew caused her acute pain. It was his special torture for when they were in public.

The bruise he had given her from always holding her there wouldn’t go away, so long as she had been…his. It had felt like a brand. Then, it had faded. In the white house on the beach, it had faded. Nyssa had watched as it did, fearful and horribly glad.

Sobbing, she jerked away from the laptop and this dreadful picture. Viggo grabbed her wrist. Not painfully. Just there. Firmly so. And his question made her forget everything else, “You look like you loathe him. Did you let him fuck you that night?” She gaped at him. He gave her a little shake. “Tell me.”

“Ye…Yes.”

His jaw was locked tight in fury. “When was that?”

“Last August. One of the techs’ wedding. Why?”

“Is this what he’s going to pay for, all those years to come, in jail? Trapping you? Doing you? Roughing you up? Cheating on you?”

She laughed in his face. He was so naive for a man with his rap sheet. He thought that the extent of Russ’s depravity stopped at sex or a little bit of manhandling her? Christ, he had no idea…She thought about telling him tales of life with his good ol’ buddy. Just to witness his shock, his horror, the widening of his eyes. Oh, yes, it would be even better than slapping him.

But she would feel dirtier in the aftermath. So, she just laughed until he looked madder than hell. Which was all good, because she was seeing red too. Her anger surprised her – surprised, pleased and excited her. Feeling wild, she pushed him away when he finally got fed-up with her mirth and shook her silent. “I’m justified!”

He turned away. “You’re justified,” he drawled. “Well, good for you.”

‘Good’? For some reason, the word was too much, and she simply went nuts. She knew she shouldn’t push him. She knew he wasn’t feeling kindly toward her – and he was justified in that too.

“Good?!” she shrieked. “Do you think that it feels good?!”

“Who the hell knows?” he spat out. “I sure as hell won’t ever know for sure!”

“Ah! Here we have it. That’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it? I took your revenge away from you!”

He spun around. “Yes! That’s what you want to hear?! Yes! You…” His voice broke. “I would have killed him! It’s the only thing I had, and you took it!” The blaze of fury in his eyes gave way to the betrayal she had known all along was there. “Why?! Why is your revenge more important than mine?! He just fucked you!”

She flinched. She didn’t know what hurt more, that he thought he had nothing when he had her or that he thought that she didn’t deserve to exact her own revenge. The second shouldn’t have been such a tragedy. He was downplaying what she had gone through. She just wanted to forget all about it. Maybe she should have been glad. She felt sick.

“Maybe you won’t believe it, Peter, but I didn’t do it to avenge myself,” she said, her voice lower and lower, calmer and calmer with every word. “I did it to protect you.”

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. His eyes went into instant combustion and he rammed her.

It was probably an unfair characterization of his actions. He didn’t hurt her, despite the strength and speed behind his sudden movement. This time, it didn’t hurt at all to be flattened against the wall. His body was plastered against hers. His knee pushed between her legs and pinned her in place. He had a palm pressed to the plaster on each side of her head. He scrutinized her with an intensity that could easily have been mistaken for something other than rage.

His warmth and smell were a shock to her system. She couldn’t help comparing him to the last man who had embraced her this intimately. Viggo was taller than Russ, larger, more solid all over. Where Russ filled his clothes like a dancer, Viggo was a runner, all muscles all over. Russ reeked of male perfume, spicy and sophisticated. The clean scent of soap that clung to Viggo’s skin always sent warm pleasure trickling down Nyssa’s chest.

“What do you mean, protect me?” he asked in a murmur.

His hot breath fanned her face, her lips went dry, and she licked them. He glanced down at her adventurous tongue, then up again. She almost swallowed it. He…

“Well?” he prodded.

She wished she had the words to convey the depth of her feelings for him, of her wishes, the extent to which her life had come to revolve around him…She was a first-class sap to have let herself get sucked in that way. Again. Dependence. Would she ever learn? But it was too late.

“Peter…”

Her tone was solemn, and he clearly knew how close she was to tears because he got that look of discomfort. But he didn’t step away. She took advantage of that. She touched him. She didn’t always dare, not with this new him. He carried such tension everywhere with him, like he might snap at any point. Now, she touched his face, gently, lightly.

“You lied to me.” She felt the start in his big body, but she ignored it. “That day, in jail, I offered you freedom. You said you wanted it.”

His eyes flickered away. A tell. Barely there but significant.

“You didn’t. Not really. But you agreed and it’s too late. Breaking you out was always the easiest part of freeing you. It was the part I could count on you for. But I knew you would fight me tooth and nail about the…the other half of it.”

“Don’t you dare say that.”

His voice held a threat. She thrust her chin out. She was definitely saying it. “I did it for you. And I would do it again.”

“Screw you,” he cursed.

He scowled down at her, contemplating – she knew – retribution. He looked like a dark avenging angel. Not Peter anymore. Michael. A winged warrior. A wrathful archangel.

Then his eyes flicked to her mouth and she knew he was thinking about kissing her again. To her surprise, thrill coiled in her guts and she felt that rare spark of real, honest-to-God attraction. It didn’t last. It was there, then gone. It was Russ all over again, using intimacy as punishment.

With Russ, she had always opted for passivity. She had known he was stronger than her. She would go very still. Not with Peter, though. Not anymore. It couldn’t become part of who she was. She had been a victim once, but it was a state, not her nature. She wouldn’t let it become part of her character.

She covered her mouth with her lips. His hand closed around her wrist, so capable of breaking her fragile bones. “No. Please, don’t.”

“Fuck,” he cursed, his skin tight on his face.

He pressed his lips to her neck. They were moist and not at all angry. She would have admitted, it made her think, this open-mouthed kiss, his frustration. It made her hate his contact a bit less. Just like that, her terror started fading. He wouldn’t hurt her. He just wanted…He wanted something from her. He was want and hurt, swirling together and merging into fireworks.

She wasn’t angry or scared anymore, the twinge of desire was also gone. She studied his down-turned profile. His lips had slumped at the corners. He knew it wasn’t working. Whatever he wanted from her, he wasn’t going to take it, and he knew it. And she felt sorry for him.

She rested her head against his chest. He sucked in a long breath. She inhaled deeply. Soap. It filled her with a sense of safety.

“For a supposedly smart man,” she said, “you sure don’t mind repeating your mistakes.”

Her voice was toneless. She felt…too much. So tired. It would have required too much energy to either cry or laugh hysterically. Viggo let go of her and she collapsed.

“Hell,” he growled.

Yes, it was hell. They were both in hell. She was broken. If he needed that from her, they were doomed. She couldn’t…

“I’m sorry.”

At that, she looked up sharply. He clearly hadn’t meant to apologize, and, from his instant frown, he wasn’t pleased that he had. He didn’t want to care. She smiled – she couldn’t help it.

“Hell,” she replied.

Now, he returned her smile, all sheepish. The moment was over in the blink of an eye but, for just a second, she saw him. Then, he folded himself down on the floor right beside her. She needed him so much. She laid her head on his shoulder. He didn’t say a thing – not a damn thing, but she heard him swallow hard. She could hear his heart thumping against his ribcage. Such a peaceful noise. Every breath felt deeper and fresher.

“I love you, Viggo, you know that.”

Damn it, her voice was still hoarse. Not entirely happy with the concept of talking, she closed her eyes and focused on the great thump thump against her ear.

“Yeah, I know,” he acknowledged at last.

He didn’t sound much better than her.

“I can’t do that. Sex.”

Again, he let a silence pass. Then, “I know. I’m scum.”

She chuckled, a near silent laugh that felt so good. “You know what you are? You’re sexy as hell.”

“Really?” he said, with just a tiny bit of shyness and pleasure.

“Yeah. Almost makes me wish that I was still up to it.”

It was his turn to laugh – silently too, but she heard it rumble in his chest. She was glad she had shared a truth that made her so vulnerable.

“I’m really a jerk,” he muttered, almost to himself, before asking aloud, “Sexier than Russ?”

She hesitated but, in the end, what did it matter? It wasn’t like she could save face by refusing to talk about it.

“I couldn’t say.” Damn, she was trying to be frank and she only managed to sound non-committal. She tried again, “I’m only being honest here. I was once attracted to him. Before everything went to hell, I mean. But, looking back, everything is so tainted. Even if it felt right, I wouldn’t know how to grade him.”

He thought it through – all those cogs spinning in his mind. Then, he heaved a great, big breath and she knew that he had reached a decision. Considering who Peter Carlsen was, he would stick to it to the ends of time. “Come here,” he grumbled.

He tugged at her legs, her arms, maneuvered and hauled her body into his lap, with his long arms looped around her and her nose in the crook of his neck. He rested his chin on top of her head, inhaled and exhaled – sounds of pure satisfaction. She was a bit nonplussed at first, before she realized that there was absolutely nothing sexual about the way he was holding her.

She snuck a quick glance up at his face. He couldn’t be quite that relaxed because his cheeks were so red it hurt her eyes. In part because she wanted to and in part to hide her grin, she pressed her face against his warm skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She didn’t delude herself that he wasn’t angry anymore or that he wouldn’t ever leave her but, for now, she was his priority. He was protecting her, comforting her. He was there and, really, that’s all she had ever wanted.

“Ah,” he muttered, all gruff and embarrassed, “I love you too, you know.”

To see more of Nyssa and Viggo, read Chapter 12.1.