Pretty Little Poison (A Dark, Bully Romance)

Content warning!

This is a bully romance that contains explicit sexual scenes involving: breath play, sensory deprivation and degradation. This book also involves characters who swear a lot (Believe me, a lot), violence, gore and murder. There are also scenes of child abuse, so if that is something you cannot handle, please click away.

The MMC is morally corrupt, obessesive and loathes that he wants the FMC, and isn’t above humiliation and power play to keep her close. There is nothing healthy about their relationship, but hey, he has tattoos, rides a motorcycle, and loves Britney Spears, so he can’t be that bad, right?

You have been warned!

ivy & rowan

POV: IVY

Rain pelted the windshield, a relentless drumbeat against the thin metal shell of my Honda. I was idling in a convenience store lot, watching shadowy figures drift in and out of the front entrance, faces obscured by the darkness and the downpour. Everything I managed to snatch in a frantic ten minutes after the roof of my apartment caved in surrounded me: my laptop, a couple bags of clothes, and a plastic grocery bag overflowing with toiletries.

I was officially homeless.

Meanwhile, my landlord was probably on a beach in Maui, sipping something with a tiny umbrella, sending out half-thought out emails about how it might be six weeks. Maybe more.

There was only one person within ten miles I could stomach calling. So, with shaking hands, I fumbled for my phone in my purse, hit his contact, and pressed call.

Luke, my brother, picked up on the second ring, the faint rhythm of hospital monitors beeping behind him.

“You okay, squirt?” he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.

“Define ‘okay’?” I muttered, wiping a smear of fog from the inside of the glass with the sleeve of my flimsy white sleep shirt. My eyes pricked with tears, hot and useless, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep them locked away.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Just… homeless.”

A long beat of silence stretched between us. “Homeless? What the hell happened?”

“The place is condemned. The roof decided to collapse thanks to the storm. The fire department gave us ten minutes to grab what we could and kicked us out.”

He cursed low and sharp. “Shit. Okay.” He sighed heavily, and I imagined him raking his hand through his sandy hair like he always did when he was thinking. “Well, I’ve got a spare room. You’re welcome to it for as long as you need.”

Relief made my shoulders slump. I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. Of course he did. Luke always had a solution. “It’ll just be until the place is livable again. Or I find somewhere else.”

“It’s no problem, really. I’m hardly there anyway,” he said, but his voice hitched, a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation. Like he had something else to add, something important, but wasn’t sure how to drop the bomb. “I do have a roommate, though. He keeps to himself and won’t bother you. I’ll let him know you’re on your way, alright?”

I nodded again, my mind already picturing Jackson, Luke’s roommate. I’d seen him maybe twice in passing—dropping off Christmas presents, a quick birthday visit. Seemed like a quiet, decent guy. “Thank you, Luke. Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Anytime. Just text me when you get there. Roads are a nightmare tonight. I’ve seen a dozen accidents already.”

“I will,” I promised, starting the engine.

Not long later, I pulled into Luke’s driveway, the tires splashing through puddles. I killed the engine and sat there, staring through the windshield at the house, the rain still coming down in sheets. I sent a quick text to my brother before I glanced down at myself.

Idiot.

I hadn’t even grabbed a damn jacket.

I stared at my paper-thin white shirt and heart-printed sleep shorts. Fantastic.

The only way out was through, right?

I shoved what I could into my arms, slung the laptop bag over my shoulder, and made a break for it, barreling out of the car and across the short stretch of lawn toward the covered porch. It didn’t help. I was already soaked through, the cold fabric clinging to my skin. My nipples poked through the thin material, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around my chest, a futile attempt at modesty before I knocked.

I waited, shivers wracking my body and teeth chattering. One minute eventually turned into two. The rain dripped from the porch roof, and the wind blew violently, swaying my frame. I frowned and knocked again, louder this time.

Nothing.

A knot of anxiety twisted in my gut. Did Luke forget to tell him? Was Jackson even here? I knocked once more, a sharp, insistent rap that was completely desperate. Finally, the lock inside clicked, and the door swung outward.

No one. Absolutely no one on this godforsaken planet could have prepared me for what—or rather, who—stood on the other side.

His lips curled into a slow, predatory smirk. “Well, well. If it isn’t Poison Ivy.”

My breath caught as I stared up at a pair of familiar steel eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Rowan Slade.

The man I had hated, truly, deeply hated, since I was small enough to still believe in monsters under the bed.

Turns out, some monsters just grew up.

He was dressed only in low-slung sweats, his inky black hair slicked back, dripping, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. Black, bold tattoos snaked across the expanse of his chest, and my eyes flicked to a singular pierced nipple. He was tall, taller than I remembered, and thin, but his muscles still wrapped tight around his frame. His (also pierced) eyebrow lifted, and the smirk spread, slow and deliberate, revealing a flash of white teeth. Not a smile—more like a wolf showing its fangs just before the bite.

And just like that, memories crashed into me. All the years of torment.

Middle school. The yank of my braids. The sharp, humiliating snap of my bra strap against my skin the first time I ever wore one. “Poison Ivy,” spat like a curse on the playground. That notebook. Full of my messy, hopeful, secret short stories. He stole it and stood on the cafeteria table, a king on his shitty throne, and read them aloud.

High school. Lunches “accidentally” tipped over, locker stuffed with rotten food or a dead rodent he found outside. Those photos he spread of me changing in the locker room. When he gave me a fake love note from the boy he knew I had a crush on, only to be the one to meet me behind the bleachers only to dump the cafeteria trash over my head.

But a long-buried memory—of soil under my nails and the scent of fresh, disturbed earth, of flesh, blood—came crashing back, and my hands shook.

No. No. No.

“What, big bro didn’t tell you?” he asked, shifting his weight, a lazy smile spreading across his stupid face.

Oh god. No. Please.

“Tell me what?” I forced the words out, my voice barely a whisper.

“Well, sorry to break the bad news, Poison, but it looks like you’re stuck with me.” His once lazy smile turned wild, as if thrilled to be the one who got to drop the bomb. “Because I’m his roommate.”