Page 79 of Ruthless King
His pain shouldn’t hurt this much.
Closing my eyes against him, I try to examine my emotions. This man betrayed me. Abandoned me. Hurt me in ways I never thought possible to hurt.
Until now.
I could always comfort myself with the idea that what I’m feeling is jealousy. In the end, Mischa wrought this revenge, not me.
My pounding heartbeat resonates through my eardrums as if to counter that lie. For the same reason, I didn’t kill him at the hotel, and the reason why I came here in the middle of the night…
I’m here because he always had a hold over me.
And now… I’m at his mercy.
Shivers wrack my body as he stirs, groaning. My cheeks flame as the masculine sound ripples through me, raising goosebumps over my skin. The only other man I’ve ever been this close to is, well him.
His knee is between my legs, his hands clasped behind my back, locking me to him, chest to chest with his mouth against my throat.
He mumbles something unintelligible, and I jump as sturdy warmth brushes my shoulder.
“You,” he croaks in a tone I barely recognize.
Shock startles me into opening my eyes, and I tremble at the sight that meets them. A nightmare would be preferable to this—Donatello so close. He’s awake, his eyes unfocused and wild, his breath tinged with a sickening amount of alcohol.
And lighter fluid. We both reek of the cloying substance.
“You can’t be here,” he tells me, his voice hoarse. “You aren’t real…”
He sounds so convinced. So…angry—at himself for daring to envision me, this corrupted version of his precious Safy. Frowning, he runs his thumb beneath my nose and frowns. Red paints the tip, and he shakes his head with a hollow laugh. “This blood isn’t real.” But confusion shatters the confidence in his voice.
I’m hurt, marred with the physical injuries inflicted by him. My throat aches, bruised by his touch. My nose smarts, and I can taste the hint of blood on my tongue. Fear should embolden me to resist him now. Fight.
Not stare.
Like a man utterly lost, he shakes his head, his nostrils flaring as he looks down, eyeing our close, entwined bodies. Something dark crosses his gaze, tightening the line of his mouth, exaggerating the wrinkles crinkling the skin. My breath catches, watching the nuances of his expression shift and change.
Gone is the wild pain that made my heart ache in the face of it.
Bit by bit, the focus returns to those piercing eyes, honing them into narrowed slits. Abruptly, he withdraws from me and stands. Without his heat, I’m freezing, my teeth chattering.
“You’re not real,” he says, breathing heavily.
But with every breath of air to enter his lungs, I know that he can sense the same pungent odors that I can—things far too real to exist in a dream.
Or a nightmare.
Blood.
Tears.
Lighter fluid.
Something in my belly unfurls, urging me to move.Run!
I barely twitch a muscle before his hand flies out, latching onto a fistful of my hair. Grunting, he drags me to him, heedless of the pain blazing across my skull. Tears sting my eyes, but I’m alarmed to realize that they never stopped falling.
Blurred, his shape looms above me, his lips a pinkish smear moving, his voice a growl.
“You aren’t real,” he insists. “But if you are…” He tugs me to my feet so swiftly stars dance across my vision. I stagger, desperate to find any traction over the cold wood beneath my feet.
