Page 57 of A Touch of Dark
“L-let me go!” I swat at his arm, but this time, he backs away.
It’s unfair how easily he maneuvers, even in the dark. My eyes blink rapidly as I adjust to the loss of his heat. Too cold. Shivering. My fingers fan out, searching until they brush silk and curl around a fistful without permission.
“I’m here.”
God, he’s the last person in the world I should hear uttering those words. The last man on Earth whose reassurance should ease my heartbeat.
The last man in the world to drag me from a nightmare.
“Get out,” I croak.
He doesn’t move and the minutes of the outage tick by, longer than the first. Too long.
“Let’s play a game,” he said. “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe or rock-paper-scissors? What about you, little girl in the purple… Tell us what to play.”
“Are you listening to me? I think I just insulted you, Ms. Thorne.”
Huh? I blink. Still here, in my room. With Damien…
“I said,” he says, infuriatingly calm, “that your bed is a travesty.Sí, no wonder you’ve been moaning every night.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “B-bastard.”
“I thought women like you lounged on silk?”
“Fuck you.” The retort trickles out of me, more as a whisper than anything else. “Go away.”
“I would,” he says thickly. “If you let me go.”
I stiffen, aware of my grip on him, but I can’t seem to loosen it. Out of self-preservation, of course. If this is a stunt, I’ll make sure his DNA is beneath my fingernails. I’ll make sure the world knows that Damien entered my apartment and…
“Your heart is racing,” he declares, sounding more concerned than taunting. “You’re afraid—”
“Get out!” This time, I manage to shove him off just as a ripple of thunder reverberates through the walls.
“Pick,” a cruel voice demanded. “Who will live and who will die?”
“Damn.” The harsher, deeper baritone doesn’t belong in my memory.
Blinking, I return to the present. I’m in my room. On my bed…
Someone’s fingers are in my hair as more warm liquid drips from my mouth and down my chin.
“Get off,” I croak, swiping at my lips. Panic melds in my blood, making everything too loud. Too sharp. Too hot.
“Breathe,” someone urges against my ear. Their hands slip from my hair, following the curve of my spine. “Breathe.”
My lungs obey him, sucking in air as the chilling reality sinks in. There’s vomit on my shirt. I’m shaking and the past looms, waiting for another roll of thunder to overwhelm me again.
And Damien is here to witness every terrible second.
“Get out.” I shift away from him and brace my feet on the floor, but he follows, his heat like a wall, keeping me upright.
“Close your eyes,” he commands against the nape of my neck. “Now.”
I do, and the darkness doesn’t help ease the shame setting my cheeks on fire. “Lucky you,” I rasp. “You have a wonderful story to sell to the tabloids—”
“Take off the shirt.”
