to let him touch me.
It’s a little daunting. Even somewhat intimidating. But I allow it because the physical contact brings an unfamiliar twist to my stomach. The sensation not loathsome in the slightest.
My pulse hammers, the beat erratic. And my breathing couldn’t settle if my life depended on it.
He does something to me, something I don’t understand. He has a way of wiping the past from my memory, temporarily covering my scars to transform me into an inexperienced teenager.
It isn’t safe to feel like this.
I clear my throat, dislodging the uncomfortable tickle, and lick the dryness from my lips. “Please let me go.” Sweat coats my palm, my grip on the gun slipping. “I need to use the bathroom.”
He doesn’t move. The only acknowledgement of my request is the flaring of his nostrils as his focus narrows on my mouth.
He’s a wall of muscle. A large, protective wall I itch to melt into.
“You’ve got ten minutes.” He steps back, giving me space that feels like abandonment. “Then you’re getting your ass back here to train.”
“Okay.” I nod, my heart rampantly beating in my throat. I’ll do anything, say anything, just to get more breathing room. “Ten minutes.”
I start for the hall, only to have him block my path with a flawless sidestep. “Are you forgetting something?” He holds out a hand, palm up. “Gun. Now.”
I return the weapon, my fingers accidentally dragging over his, the connection increasing the whirlpool of crazy sensations inside me. I literally scamper for the hall like a skittish dog, then continue to my room. I don’t stop my escape until I’ve locked myself in the adjoining bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror. Panting. Gasping.
I barely recognize the woman reflected back at me.
She’s frazzled. Mindless and wild.
For the first time since arriving in Portland, I acknowledge how much my appearance has changed. I was far prettier as a slave. All the visual benefits of the compulsory beauty treatments and hair-styling appointments have since faded. My lashes no longer hold the thick tint. The expensive makeup is no longer a daily requirement. And now I sort of wish they were, because I’m not looking my best for him.
For Luca.
It’s ridiculous and pathetic. Downright insane, too. Yet I feel unworthy at the sight of my reflection.
There’s no sense to my thoughts. None at all. There’s even less sense surrounding the dampness between my thighs, my arousal seeping into the crotch of my sweatpants.
I don’t like Luca that way. I can’t.
I shouldn’t like any man.
So why do I crave things I shouldn’t be craving?
It’s disgusting after everything I’ve been through. Especially when the fluttering sensations were triggered from a moment filled with menace and danger.
I’d had a gun to his stomach. I’d threatened to kill him. All the while, my hands itched to drag him closer. To pull him into me. Against me.
I’d yearned for his proximity. The closeness that always makes me feel sheltered.
“Goddamnit.” I wince through the shame.
Luther did this to me. He’s turned me into a mess.
He influences every second of my life, and it’s got to stop. I refuse to continue being his slave. I hate myself for allowing him to shape me for this long. For not being able to sleep at night. For the inability to wear underwear. For the fear and the anger and the pain.
I cling tight to the vanity and fight the scream clawing up my throat. I will not let that man defeat me. I refuse. He may have won the game with Abi from beyond the grave but he won’t regain a tighter hold on me.
“I won’t fucking let you,” I sneer into the mirror. “You’re dead, you son of a bitch. Fucking dead. You can’t control me now.”
I storm from the bathroom, yanking my sweater over my head as I continue to the wardrobe. If Luca thinks self-defense lessons will help me, then so be it. I’ll learn. It’s not like I enjoy being this broken shred of a woman. I don’t want to be useless.
I’m just not sure my shattered pieces can be recycled into something worthwhile.
I strip off my moist sweatpants without daring to look at them. That’s when I pause, my hand poised near another oversized outfit when my gaze catches on the only set of figure-hugging yoga pants I mindlessly purchased with Luca’s credit card when I first arrived.
I have a closet full of baggy items. But I no longer want to hide in those.
I want to be better. To be