Page 140 of Modern Romance Collection March 2025 (1-4)

‘Don’t leave me again, not with him,’ he whispered. The monster was still there, lingering on the edges of his consciousness, and only she could protect him.

‘Shh, it’s okay. I won’t, I promise, but you must drink more water.’

Something touched his mouth. He opened dry sore lips, let the icy cold soothe his scorching throat. Was it her—the woman who had held him before, and kept the monster away with the fierce, furious rush of pleasure?

He clasped her wrist, forced his eyelids open despite the ten-ton weights attached to each one. She shimmered into view, her heart-shaped face so beautiful. The concerned expression calmed the emptiness inside him. He stared, captivated by the sight of those cornflower blue eyes—intent, determined, the full rosy lips so lush. Had he kissed them? He must have, because he could remember her taste and knew he wanted to taste her again.

‘He hates me,’ he said, because he wanted someone, finally, to know the ugly truth which had been locked inside him for so long. ‘And I can’t make it stop.’

‘Rene, it’s okay, he can’t hurt you any more,’ she said, her voice strong with understanding and courage. A courage he had never possessed. ‘I won’t let him.’

He closed his eyes again as shame washed over him on another wave of searing heat.

Why had he told her? Would she hate him too now? For his weakness, his cowardice.

‘If you complain, I will make sure you regret it. Do you understand?’his father’s voice threatened again from the darkness.

He was too exhausted, too weak, to fight the fear, alone again…

‘Sleep, Rene, you need sleep. You’re safe. I think the fever’s broken now…’

As he drifted into the darkness he could hear her voice, protecting him, and knew it was finally safe to let himself fall.

* * *

Rene jerked awake, then winced and cursed, before slamming his eyes shut again.

Had he been run over by a truck? Because he hurt,everywhere.

And who had turned on the searchlight? Because his retinas were on fire. He lifted his arm to cover his face and block out the light, but it took a while because the limb was a dead tree attached to his shoulder, unwieldy and not really his own.

He lay, taking deep shuddering breaths as he assessed the damage.

Thumping headache? Check. Aching bicep? Check. A throat drier than the Gobi Desert? Check. Cheeks that feel as if someone has sandpapered them? Double check.

It was a technique he’d learned as a child, to cope with all those times he’d woken up in pain, with bruises in places no one could see, feeling broken inside.

He frowned.

Get a grip on the pity party, Gaultiere. That broken kid is long gone and good riddance.

After what felt like several eternities, he eased his arm down and reopened his eyes, with a lot more caution.

What the heck was he doing lying flat on his back on the floor? In a room he did not recognise. Because the décor—carved wood beams and dark stone, not to mention the floral throw covering his lower half—looked like something out of a luxury fever dream.

Fever? Dream? Melody?

He re-covered his eyes as the memories of the storm and—far too much more—came flooding back into his consciousness.

‘Don’t. Wait.’

Heat swelled as he recalled lodging himself deep. Thrusting hard.

But had that actually happened? Or was it just another wet dream? Everything was so hazy and confused, because the memory of kissing her neck, touching her swollen flesh, thrusting into her again, was all mixed up with other stuff. Like his father being an even bigger arse than usual. And her saying tender things while her eyes glowed with compassion.

Surely, he’d imagined that. How could it be true when she hated his guts? Almost as much as his father had.

He rolled to his side, then moaned, the pain in his arm exploding.

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