Page 25 of A Touch of Dark
“You say that as though I enjoy having to beg you for help on my goddamn hands and knees. But you promised me retribution for Mathias. Remember him? Our brother—”
“Stop.” The warning isn’t directed at me though I freeze paces from the doorway. “It seems as though Julio needs more training.”
Damien stands in the center of a room decorated in muted shades. Black leather armchairs form a circle around an industrial-gray coffee table. Steel-gray walls and wooden floors feed the shadows gathered in the corners. Only the light cast from a hanging fixture combats the darkness.
But even it is no match for Damien. The blindfold reduces his expression to nothing more than a stern frown. Emotions seep from him regardless, painting the air like canvas. Alarm. Anger. Confusion?
“Juliana Thorne,” he says coldly. “What a surprise. I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this discussion short, Mateo.” He inclines his head to a man I only notice now.
Tall like he is, but with a thinner face and shorter hair. He eyes me coldly, his upper lip drawing back from his teeth.
“Gracías, brother,” he snarls. “I can see that you’vehandledthis, all right.”
“Leave.” Damien’s tone may be level, but only a fool would challenge it.
His companion draws himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders. On his way out, he slams into me. Hard. I stagger against the wall and slide to the floor. The room blurs, becoming muted colors and harsh shadow. It’s a nightmarish painting dominated by one unmoving figure.
“Breathe!” he growls, his voice cutting deep.
I am, aren’t I? I can’tstopbreathing. Gasping down air. Choking it back out. Faster. Faster.
Thwack! Stinging pain flares through my cheek and I flinch in shock as frayed nerves reset and register the sudden nearness of an imposing figure.
“I apologize.” He slowly withdraws his hand, his frown stern.
It’s almost funny how I feel his slap more than anything else. My fingers race to the throbbing skin, tracing the abuse.
“I don’t typically humor unannounced visitors.” An unsettling mixture of politeness and malice color Damien’s tone as expertly as the charcoal he shades his drawings with. “So what brings you here tonight, Juliana Thorne—”
“My birthday’s over.” The words fall flat. Broken. Then I’m laughing, forced to draw my knees to my chest as the sound racks me to my core.
He says nothing when I finally trail off, waiting. Expectant.
“It’s over. It should be over,” I blurt out in a rush. “But twenty years. Twenty years. I never missed a night before. Not one.”
“What should be over?”
I flinch. The sharp note of curiosity in his tone shouldn’t be there—and he’s too hard to read without a gaze to search. I’m the one rendered blind against him.
“Nothing,” I croak. Just a shadow. Just a nightmare. Just… “My birthday.”
If he’s confused by the conflicting statements, I can’t tell. And his silence only makes it worse.
“I…fell. At work,” I add. “The door was locked. It wasn’t supposed to be locked. I fell and…” I’m rambling.
He permits it, aptly listening to every word. Pretending to, anyway. No one ever listens. My therapist just reflects to me what I should feel. Daddy only ever hears what he wants. The world demands pretty, shiny words and adjectives to describe whatever petty bullshit they hope to sell. Darkness isn’t appealing. It can’t be wrapped with a bow and sold with a smile.
So I lied.
Until now.
Words spill from me like blood—ironic since I’m still bleeding. My shoulder throbs. Salt and copper itch my nostrils, but every truth ripped from my soul stings ten times worse. Maybe because none of it makes any damn sense. I’ve been playing the world’s oldest game of Simon Says for so long, I don’t even know where to begin.
Eight-year-old Juliana did her best when rambling to the first responding officer.“He made us play…”
I’m less coherent now.
“Three days,” I croak. “I just have to play along for three days.”
