A low moan cuts through the sound of his heavy breaths. It’s me making that noise. It feels good, even though I don’t want it to.
It’s hard to breathe, to think, to fight . . .
“That’s it,” he coaxes. His other hand pushes between my bu**ocks.
I try to pull away, but he’s got me trapped. He’s bigger than me, stronger. No matter how I struggle, I can’t push him off.
“Don’t,” I tell him, squirming.
“You like it,” he grunts. His hand pumps me harder. “You shoot off like a geyser every time. It’s okay. It’s supposed to feel good. You’ll be better once you’ve come. You won’t fight with your mother so much . . .”
“No. Don’t! Oh, God . . .”
He pushes two slick fingers inside me. I cry out, writhing away, but he won’t quit. He’s rubbing and thrusting into me, hitting the spot that makes me want to come more than anything. The pleasure grows despite the tears burning my eyes.
My head falls forward. My chin touches my heaving chest. It’s coming. I can’t stop it . . .
Abruptly, I look down from a higher vantage. My hand is suddenly bigger, my forearm thicker and coursing with veins. Dark hair dusts my arms and chest, my abdomen ripples with muscle as I fight the orgasm I don’t want.
I am not a child anymore. He can’t hurt me anymore.
There’s a knife atop the centerfold, gleaming in the light from the vanity beside me. I grab it and jerk free of the fingers f**king me. I turn and the blade sinks into his chest.
“Don’t touch me!” I roar, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him into the knife, all the way to the hilt.
Hugh’s eyes widen with horror. His mouth falls open in a silent scream.
His face morphs into Nathan’s. My childhood bathroom shimmers and transforms. We’re in an eerily familiar hotel room.
My heart pounds harder. I can’t be here. They can’t find me here. Can’t find any trace of me. I have to leave.
I stumble back. The knife withdraws in a smooth, blood-soaked glide. Nathan’s eyes turn milky with death. They’re gray. Gray eyes. Beautiful, beloved dove gray irises. Eva’s eyes. Clouding over . . .
Eva is bleeding in front of me. Dying in front of me. I’ve killed her. My God . . .
Angel!
Can’t move. Can’t reach her. She crumples and pools onto the floor, those stormy eyes dull and sightless—
I jerked awake with a gasp, sitting up in a rush that sent an air-conditioned breeze across my sweat-soaked skin. I couldn’t breathe through the panic and fear choking me. Shoving off the sheet tangled around my legs, I stumbled out of bed, blind with terror. My stomach heaved in protest and I lurched into the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before I vomited.
—
I showered, washing away the sticky sweat covering me.
The grief and despair weren’t so easy to get away from. As I scrubbed a dry towel over my skin, they weighed heavily, suffocating me. The memory of Eva’s pale face etched with betrayal and death haunted me. I couldn’t get it out of my head.
I stripped the bed with rough, jerky movements, then yanked a clean fitted sheet over the mattress.
“Gideon.”
I straightened and turned at the sound of Eva’s voice. She stood in the doorway to my bedroom, her hands twisting in the hem of the T-shirt she wore. Regret hit me hard. She’d gone to sleep alone in the room I’d had redesigned to look like her bedroom on the Upper West Side.
“Hey,” she said softly, tentatively, shifting on her feet in a way that told me how uncomfortable she felt. How wary. “Are you okay?”
The light from the bathroom lit her face, revealing dark circles and reddened eyes. She’d fallen asleep crying.
I’d done this to her. I had made her feel unwelcome, unwanted, her thoughts and feelings less of a concern to me than my own. I’d let my past drive a wedge between us.