Thank you to my babes for holding my hand
Edward
Fuck, no.
No, no, no.
XCite Expo '16, second day, mid-afternoon. I remember one of my friends telling me about what happened. I remember choosing demonstrations, not picking that one, and feeling grateful for having missed that horror show.
Marcus Burkley, wannabe Dominant from across the United States, banned for life at any and every fetish-related event. Ever.
Isabella Swan was the sub that ended up at the ER. She was the one Burkley strung from the ceiling without ever even having had a proper education in suspension before.
Burkley—the fucking liar who intended to expose the BDSM and fetish-lifestyle as vile and horrible, as nothing but abuse. He hurt her, scarred her for life with his actions. Sweet, baby Havoc ended up in a puddle of her own blood, shards of her own skin hanging from sharp hooks that dangled in the air. Isabella Swan went through that in front of the eyes of a few hundred spectators.
No wonder she's traumatized.
Brown eyes look up at me, all worried and watery as her lashes flutter nervously.
"Shit." I breathe, rubbing my face. "I can't believe that was you…"
"You were there?" she asks me, voice trembling before she sits up straight again, laces up her mask—again.
"Yeah, of course. I'm always at XCite. I perform every year if I have a sub."
Her brows furrow, but she clearly doesn't remember.
"I've never been since…" is all she says.
"I'm glad they locked him up," I state firmly.
"Serves him right, for what he did to Jessica," she mumbles.
"For what he did to you, too, Havoc," I insist.
"Jessica died, Ginger." For once, I don't hate the nickname she gave me.
"Don't play this down, please. The bastard mutilated you; he scarred you for life." I'm so angry I want to throw stuff, but I try to compose myself—light up a cigarette in the middle of the hotel suite instead.
Poor baby Havoc...