Page 53 of Redemption

He hasn’t tried to touch me more than absolutely necessary in that time, and he’s slept on the tiny chaise every night. He says he doesn’t want to disturb my sleep, but sometimes I wonder if he has other reasons for giving me space.

My plan from the very beginning was to make him understand that I will never love him again. Perhaps my escape attempt—and the desperate risk I took—has given him some perspective. It might actually be sinking in that I don’t feel anything for him but loathing and resentment.

I can see that it bothers him.

Good.

He deserves to feel disturbed for what he’s done to me.

I’m not delusional enough to think he experiences guilt, but he does seem uncomfortable and off-balance around me in a way I never would’ve expected.

I’ve spent long days in the studio working through my physical pain so that I can spend time at my easel.

Dr. Graham approves of my efforts to return to gentle daily activities as part of my recovery, even if he does appear genuinely bothered by my winces at sudden movements. A few times, he’s reached for me during particularly intense spikes of pain, but he always withdraws when I flinch.

Today, I’m putting the finishing touches on the painting I’ve struggled to express on my canvas. The agony of it was far deeper than the ache in my ribs when I lifted my arm or shifted my weight too quickly.

I set my brush down and sit back, taking in my work. It hasn’t been a cathartic project; it’s been an act of anguish.

But it’s finished. I can show it to Dane now.

I cross the parquet floor and open the door to the portrait-lined corridor.

“Dane?” I call out.

Heavy footfalls immediately rush toward me. He appears out of his bedroom and storms down the corridor. His dark brows are drawn together, and his eyes are almost feverish with worry.

“What’s wrong?”

I take a step back from his potent aura. I don’t understand him when he’s like this, and it scares me. I can’t predict his actions when he shows a semblance of human emotion. Will he tackle me to the floor again and force himself on me in a moment of twisted passion? Or will he snap back to his cold, clinical default state? Both are equally terrifying.

I swallow hard, and he halts as though he’s hit a brick wall, stopping several feet away from me. His beautiful eyes rake overmy body, assessing me for signs of injury. Then his shoulders slump slightly.

“You’re all right.”

“I have something to show you,” I say instead of responding.

I’m not all right. My heart throbs as though it’s as battered and bruised as my body after the crash. The painstaking work of finishing my painting has left me wrung-out and emotionally exhausted, but I have to see this through.

I take another step back, but this time, I’m welcoming him to enter the studio. The moment he sets eyes on my art, he freezes again.

“Abigail…” He breathes my name. “What is this?”

“It’s me,” I answer quietly.

On the canvas, I’ve captured all of my pain and impotent rage, my fear and desperation. My face is contorted in an anguished scream, and blood drips from my split lips. My face is bruised almost beyond recognition, and my fingers are knotted in my hair, tearing at the delicate strands. More bruises encircle my throat—the violent marks from Dane’s fingers imprinted on my pale skin.

“Why?” he asks, his gaze transfixed on the disturbing image like it’s a car crash he can’t look away from.

“This is what you did to me.” It’s meant to be a flat statement of fact, but the lump in my throat makes the words strained.

“No,” he refuses. “You’re getting better. You’re healing. This didn’t happen in the wreck.”

“It’s how I feel inside.” Tears burn my cheeks. I blink rapidly, but I can’t stop the steady stream as my tumultuous emotions leak out of me.

He shakes his head sharply, a willful rejection of the truth. “I know men have hurt you,” he growls. “I know you’ve felt shame and self-loathing. I never want you to think of yourself this way.”

“No, Dane. This is whatyoudid to me.”

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