Page 53 of A Touch of Dark
Yes.My tongue struggles to push the word out as thunder rumbles ominously.
Days ago, I could face the threat of a simple storm alone without pacing before the row of windows in my living room or anxiously watching the clouds approach. I’d dread the thunder, but wine was my only defense—I had nothing to compare the loneliness to.
Now, when the first few drops of rain speckle the glass, there’s no bottle within reach. Lightning flickers closer with every strike, heralding the terror of my past.
The woods.
Leslie.
His voice twisted its way through my skull.
Simon says…
“Juliana.”
I whirl around, heart in my throat. “What?”
“You’re afraid.” He cocks his head, drawing attention to my current state. How I stand. How I breathe. How my gait wavers with every step I take over the carpet. “You’re uneasy…” His posture stiffens and I imagine him listening for intruders in the shadows. When his search turns up nothing, he frowns. “Tell me why.”
My teeth skewer my lower lip, trapping a frustrated hiss. I’m tearing my fingers through my hair like a madwoman. When lightning strikes, I jump.
“Fine.” Teeth gritted, I turn from the window and find him seated, his posture erect. “Storms tend to usher bad men into my life.” What I intend to be a cruel jab falls flat. I’m the one who winds up flinching.
“Bad men.” He parrots the phrase emotionlessly. “Explain.”
I force out a breath and turn on my heel. I’m treading the same path he was earlier. A ruthless trek from one corner of my living room to the other. My bare toes tingle as if sensing the steps he took, large and purposeful.Ugh. I shake my head to clear the thought. No use. The tingle spreads up my legs and I’m walking faster.
“I know you dug into my past,” I say over my shoulder. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”
“I’m aware of what happened to you as a child,” he admits, phrasing the words with subtle care. “You were attacked in the woods by an unknown assailant. Your young friend was killed in front of you and you weren’t found until over forty-eight hours later, on the verge of death. The murderer was never caught and some insensitive reporters sensationally suspected that you, an eight-year-old girl, may have been the culprit all along. Jealousy, they claimed.”
I stare from the window, seeking refuge in the howling storm. I don’t know why his knowledge shocks me so much. Of course he’s done his research. Still. When most people discover my past, out come the kid gloves and coddling. Few would dare confront me about it in clinical, stark terms.
Fewer care to listen.
“I am aware of the published accounts, anyway,” he adds. “I assume thunderstorms make you relive it.”
I swallow hard. “Yes.” God, I sound so damn pathetic.Hedoes this to me. “It stormed that night…”
“When it happened?”
Forest. Cold.The memories threaten to unfold, but I bite them back. “How did you know someone was breaking in?”
“Intuition.”
My eyes widen. “Are you magic in addition to blind—”
“You’re stalling,” he interjects. “What is it about the storms that makes you so afraid?”
My eyebrows furrow. “Desperate for a new emotion to paint, Mr. Villa?”
“No.”
I shrug off the genuine curiosity in his tone. “They—” Lightning flickers across the horizon, and I lick my lips with a nervous flit of my tongue. “They make me feel…alone.”
Alone.
Trapped.
