Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 66: Vengeance

JUSTIN – POV

After everything—after the heat, the gasps, the quiet aftermath—she stood.

Naked.

Magnificent.

But the moment flickered and died as she reached for my shirt and tugged it over her trembling frame. Like armor. Like a shield between us.

I didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Because I saw something in her eyes then—something that hadn’t been there before.

A crack.

And behind it, pain.

Real, shattering pain.

I should’ve shut up. I should’ve let the silence hold her a little longer. But I couldn’t. The questions had been eating me alive.

Why didn’t she tell me?

Why did she leave without a word?

Why did she endure it, and stay silent?

The image of her stabbing that man—her so-called father—with a fork haunted me. That wasn’t impulse. That was years of rage.

So I said it.

Quietly, but sharply. "Why didn’t you tell me about that bastard? About what he did to you?"

She froze.

My voice hardened. I asked, each word heavier than the last. "Why did you keep quiet when I confronted you? Why didn’t you scream, June? Why did you sneak out that morning—leave without telling me anything?"

And then she exploded.

"Because he was my adopted father!" she screamed.

Her voice ripped through the room like shrapnel. I flinched before I even realized it.

"He was the man who was supposed to protect me—and he owned everything! The house. The money. Me."

The fury in her voice didn’t match the agony in her eyes. It wasn’t anger at me. It was decades of betrayal finally finding a voice.

I went still.

And she stepped forward—unsteady, shaking, but fierce.

"Do you want the truth, Justin?" she said, voice cracking. "He told me to lie down. To open my legs. And if I flinched—if I so much as breathed the wrong way—he’d make it worse."

I couldn’t breathe.

"He would bite me—bite my nipple until it bled," she whispered, her fingers curling into fists. "Slap me if I hesitated. Threaten me. Tell me I should be grateful someone even wanted me. That no one would ever love a thing like me except him."

My knees felt like they would give out.

But she kept going—couldn’t stop now. The dam had broken.

"You think I gave myself to him?" she choked, voice rising. "You think I chose that life? You have no idea, Justin. You have no fucking clue what it’s like to stare at your ceiling at night and pray—pray—you could peel your skin off and leave it behind."

Each word slammed into me like a blow.

She stepped closer.

"You want to know why I didn’t tell anyone? Because he’s powerful. He’s connected. Because nobody listens to the foster kid with the bruises and the bad attitude."

Her voice cracked, and she finally let herself fall apart.

Tears came fast and furious, like a flood. Messy, guttural sobs that bent her forward.

And all I could do was stand there. Frozen.

Because I had been so blind.

"I came to you here," she whispered, her voice a ghost now, "because I needed you."

She looked up—eyes hollow and red, jaw tight with humiliation.

"Because you were the only one who ever made me forget. Even for a second. But then—then you looked at me like I was dirty. Like I was a fucking slut."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, rage and shame burning in equal measure.

"But I’m not," she whispered, almost pleading. "God, I’m not. I just wanted to feel something that wasn’t him."

"All those nights you asked me what was wrong and I couldn’t tell you—it’s because no one ever believed me," she spat. "Not the school. Not the neighbors. Not even my mother."

Her voice broke then, and she looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

"She was the first person I told, you know?" she said quietly, almost like a secret. "I told her what he did... what he made me do. How he came into my room late at night and touched me. And she—she called me a liar."

I blinked, stunned. My heart caved in on itself.

"She said I was defaming a good man. Her good husband. She said I was ungrateful," she said with a laugh so hollow it made my skin crawl. "She told me if I ever said a word again, she’d teach me a lesson I’d never forget."

I clenched my fists.

"I was a kid back then," she whispered. "Scared of him. Scared of her."

She looked so small in that moment. My shirt hung loosely off her shoulder, her voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears.

"And then Army—my best friend—she found out. I thought she’d help me. But she used it against me. Told my boyfriend I was sick. That I liked it. That I wanted it. And he... he believed her."

She finally looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw it all. The betrayal. The heartbreak. The isolation.

"I didn’t know how you’d behave," she said slowly. "Didn’t want you to look at me like Bart did."

I knew him. Her stupid ex. The one who ghosted her for months and called her ’twisted’ behind her back.

"But you did," she added. "That night. You looked at me like he did. Like I was dirty. And then—then you changed your mind. Let me stay. Held me while I slept like I wasn’t broken. That night was the first time I felt safe..."

She swallowed, hard.

"I didn’t want to lose that," she whispered. "Couldn’t face you in the morning. I wanted to leave with a happy ending. You holding me while I slept. Not calling me a slut for sleeping with my father."

My chest ached. I had no words. Just pain. Guilt. Rage.

Her gaze drifted away, her eyes distant—as if falling into a memory she hadn’t meant to find.

"I thought he would be gone," she said numbly. "Thought he’d be at work like usual. But he was waiting. He was always waiting."

Her breath trembled. Her voice turned cold.

"And when he got mad, he wanted to punish me. Like always. He bent me over the kitchen counter—just like every other time—but this time... this time something snapped."

She paused.

I could hear my own heartbeat.

"I heard voices," she whispered. "They told me to do it. To fight. To stab him."

She looked at me again, eyes wild and full of fire.

"So I did. I grabbed the fork. I stabbed him."

She took a step forward, trembling.

"And I loved every fucking second of it," she hissed. "I want to stab him again and again. For every scream I held in. For every time I bled into my pillow. For the little girl in me that he ruined."

She turned her face away, voice breaking again.

"I killed him. I’m a monster now."

"No," I said, my voice sharp. Fierce.

She flinched, but turned.

"No, you didn’t kill him. You survived him," I said.

She blinked, unsure.

"I wouldn’t let him off so easily after trying to vanish my little light," I said, walking toward her, my hands curling into fists.

She stared at me, confused.

My lips curled into something darker. Colder.

And I let it show—just a glimpse.

The edge of my real face.

The one I wore when I hunted the ones who broke us.

The one I showed to the men in that underground lab before we set it on fire.

The one I kept buried beneath the surface—until now.

"You want to see a monster, June?" I asked, voice deadly quiet.

Her eyes widened.

"I became one for people like him."

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

I stepped closer, close enough that she could see the shift in my eyes, the fury I kept leashed around everyone but her.

"You think I let the ones who did this to us walk away?" I whispered. "I tracked them. Every single one of them. The doctors. The guards. The ones who laughed when we cried. I made them scream."

Her breath caught.

"You’re not a monster," I said softly, brushing a knuckle along her jaw. "You’re just a girl who fought back. And I’m proud of you."

A sob escaped her throat before she could stop it.

She collapsed into me, her fists pounding my chest once, twice—before her arms wrapped around my waist, clutching me like I was the last thing tethering her to the earth.

And maybe I was.

I held her.

Tight.

Strong.

Unmoving.

Letting her fall apart in the safety of my arms, where no one—no monster—could ever touch her again.

Not while I was breathing.

She shook in my arms—bone-deep trembles, the kind that come after years of silencing screams, of stitching wounds no one else ever saw. Her fists curled into my shirt like it was the only thing anchoring her, and still she cried.

But the moment her sobs began to slow, when her breath hitched instead of gasped, I leaned in, letting my mouth brush against the shell of her ear.

"If you want your revenge," I whispered, voice like a knife sliding through silk, "if you want to stab him again and again—I can let you. I can give you that chance."

Her breath stopped.

"I can bring him back. In every way that matters. Make him kneel. Let you choose the blade. Again and again, June."