The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,130

face twisted in a rage, his lanky arms and legs twitching as if her being out on her own at night was a personal affront to him.

Like someone slashing his tires. Spray-painting graffiti all over his office. Lighting a Bible on fire in front of him.

Closing the door, she waited for the usual mania she felt around him to put gas in her veins. She braced herself for the high-octane rush of crazy, the one that helped her through these situations. She got ready for the cutting words that came to her mind from out of nowhere, and that sly, bitchy smile to hit her face.

None of it materialized.

Instead, she experienced a crushing weight settling all over her body, to the point that, even as he burst up from the chair and came across the white rug at her, she couldn’t move. It wasn’t because she was scared of him—at least, she didn’t think that was what was happening. Rather, her body had turned into a numb block … while her consciousness sailed above the immovable stone of her flesh.

She watched from somewhere over her right shoulder as he ranted and raved, grabbed her arm, shook her, threw her onto the bed.

Hovering over herself, she played witness to what happened next, feeling nothing, doing nothing … even seeing the back of his head, his shoulders, and his legs from her lofty vantage point as he tore at her clothes and pulled at her limbs.

Underneath her body, the duvet was getting so messy, the former order ruined, the fine Egyptian cotton wrinkling up as he sweated on top of her.

Gin focused mostly on her own face. The features were quite beautiful. The eyes, however, were totally vacant, with all the inner light and life as a pair of cobblestones. The composure was admirable, she supposed. Lying back and thinking of England, or something.

Bergdorf’s, was it Samuel had said?

When Richard was done, he sagged and then removed himself. And Gin’s body just lay there as he said some more things. Then he turned on his heel and left with his chin up, like a boy who had successfully defended his sandbox from the older kids and now was content to leave it be as the dominance had been the thing for him, not the particular possession.

After a while, Floating Gin came down from above the bed and sat beside Real Gin. She didn’t want to go back in her body yet, though. It was better to be apart from it all. Easier …

As she had a passing thought that she should cover up, Real Gin’s arm moved and pulled the duvet over their lower body.

In the stillness, Gin reflected that maybe she deserved what she got. She had treated everyone around her with derision, deliberately and knowingly flaunted every rule there was, been judgmental and cruel for sport, led the mean girls’ club in every grade, camp and school she’d ever been in—and now that all the classrooms and gathering of degrees was in the rearview mirror, she was at the forefront of the catty women of leisure.

Well, at least that had been the case.

Given the crushing numbers of people who had not showed up at her father’s visitation? And the fact that Tammy wouldn’t come anymore? She had clearly been demoted.

So maybe this was karma.

Maybe this was what happened when you threw bad energy out into the world. Maybe this was the tsunami of what she’d done to others coming back to crash on her shoreline.

Then again … maybe she had simply married an asshole for all the wrong reasons and Richard was a sadistic rapist and victims were never to blame—and it was up to her to be clear-eyed and courageous and end this before he killed her.

Because that was where they were headed: She had seen Richard’s eyes get excited like a hunter’s did. He wasn’t going to be satisfied over time with the level of violence they were currently at. He was going to keep pushing it because he got off on the hurting and the subjugation—but only if it had a fresh edge to make things really sizzle for him.

He’d learned to bully at the feet of masters. And now he was getting off on being the one doing the intimidation.

Maybe she should just kill him first?

That was her last thought as sleep claimed both parts of her, her body and her soul, the blanket of unconsciousness easing the traffic jam in her head: Yes, maybe the