Page 182 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
God, just thinking his name should evoke deep emotions—anger, fear, rage, pain. Instead, there’s nothing but an icebox where the feelings should be.
I stared at Zane’s corpse on the parking garage floor, and I didn’t feel an ounce of remorse for his death.
I felt vindicated.
Storm clutches my hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this mortal plane, as if he were to release me, he’d float away and never come back.
He’s cold, shut out, shut off.
Storm’s not in there. I’m sitting next to his shell.
The driver doesn’t say anything when we pull in front of the house, and I’m grateful that it’s so late because it means the kids won’t see my bruised face.
When we enter the foyer, I stop at the mirror by the front door, still holding hands with Storm. My skin will bruise wherehe slapped me, but other than my sore scalp, I don’t think I’ll look too scary for the children to see tomorrow. Nothing some thick foundation can’t help.
Storm’s gentle fingers land on my chin, and I face him. He examines my face with dull eyes, his gaze running over the contours of my abrasion.
“It’s not so bad,” I say, but my voice must hit him like a shout. He flinches and drops his hand from my face. Then, without another word, he marches us to his room.
“Storm?” I murmur when he guides us into the bathroom and starts the taps to fill the tub.
He doesn’t respond.
“Storm, talk to me,” I whisper when he pours lavender and chamomile soap into the water.
He doesn’t respond.
With gentle movements, he undresses me, stripping me down to nothing. He moves around my back, examining the cuts and rapidly forming bruises. He makes a rough sound when he parts my hair, and my hands go to my head, feeling the chunk of hair missing from my scalp.
“It’ll grow back, at least,” I say, trying to break the tension between us.
When he sees the cut on my side, he hisses.
“Do you think it’ll need stitches?” I ask softly as he moves to his haunches.
He still doesn’t verbally reply; all he does is look at me with fire in his eyes and shake his head.
The fire burns into something dark.
Something deadly.
He kisses the slice, pressing his lips to where it hurts the most.
I don’t know whythatis what makes me cry.
Storm stands, grabs a short bottle of water, and pulls a medicine container from the drawer. Silently, still so damn silently, he taps three Ibuprofen tablets into my hand and cracks open the water.
I don’t give him any pushback and take the pills without complaint.
I expect the water to burn when he lowers me into the tub, but I get a feeling that if I show him my pain, it might send him off the deep end.
He seems so close to losing it completely, and I don’t know what the hell I’ll do if he does.
“Storm, please,” I whisper, sliding my eyes closed as he turns off the full tub. I count my heartbeats, grateful as hell that I’m still alive.
Storm saved me when I couldn’t save myself.
I expect him to remain silent.
