Page 67 of Brutal Heir
When I’m with him, his presence is too overpowering, all-consuming. I find myself trapped in that hypnotic gaze, a helpless fly caught in a silky web. Seeing him tonight like that, so cold and distant broke something inside me.
It snapped me from that fog of denial I’ve been comfortably residing in for weeks.
Alessandro may be a survivor, scarred and battered, but he’s so much more. That familiar darkness resides deep in his veins, buried under the marred flesh and torn up soul. It lingers as clearly as my own.
And I want no part of it.
The cold bites through my jacket like frosty punishment, the fire of adrenaline from the club long extinguished by the icy Manhattan wind. Heels clicking too loudly against the pavement, I clutch my coat tighter around my shoulders and head east toward 2nd Avenue. Toward somewhere, anywhere, safe.
I keep my head down, hair whipping across my face, throat still raw from emotion, from fear, from everything. My heart’s still beating too hard, but at least out here, I can breathe. The music’s gone, the walls are gone,he’sgone.
Still, something prickles beneath my skin. That low, crawling feeling at the base of my neck like I’m being watched. Followed.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
Nothing but shadows and lingering city noise. Just a man across the street lighting a cigarette. Just a couple arguing outside a late-night falafel spot. Just the December wind.
“Get a grip, Rory,” I mutter under my breath, forcing my legs to keep moving. “Not everyone’s out to get ya.”
Even if it feels like they are.
I take a turn onto a quieter street, one block from Mack’s place. My steps quicken. Not because I’m scared I tell myself. Just because I want this night to be over. Because I need to be somewhere alone with my thoughts. Somewherehecan’t reach.
But the feeling doesn't fade.
If anything, it grows.
That prickle intensifies until I’m casting another glance over my shoulder, then another.
Nothing.
I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. It’s the gory scene at the club that has my nerves on edge. No one is following me. Why would they be?
Slowing my manic strides, I glance up, nearly racing right past the designated address. Stopping, I scan my phone to confirm I’m at the right place. Mack and Shelly’s new apartment. I just hope her love life is going better than mine.
Pressing my finger to the buzzer, a sharp click resounds, and the lock disengages. Yanking the door open, I dart inside and out of the freezing rain.
The second the door clicks shut behind me, my shoulders drop. My lungs stretch wide for the first time in hours. Inside smells like old takeout and vanilla candles and everything that isn’t him.
I release a shuddering breath and lean against the cinderblock wall.
Safe.
Sipping my warm caramel macchiato as I head toward the subway station the next morning, I ignore the slivers of unease rising from the evening before. The grisly body. Alessandro’s reaction. The sensation of being followed.
Then the nightmare that had kept me tossing and turning all night.
I jolt awake on the couch, a scream lodged in my throat, sweat slick on my skin. The blanket is a tangled mess around my legs, twisted like chains, pinning me to the cushions as my heart slams against my ribs.
It’s the same nightmare. Always the same.
The weight pressing me down. The cold stink of sweat and cheap cologne. The rasp of his breath against my ear. The rip of fabric tearing as I fought, as I clawed, as I begged?—
A choked sob breaks free before I can swallow it down. I slap a hand over my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the images. It doesn’t stop the feel of him on top of me, doesn’t stop the memory of my own voice, too hoarse to scream, biting down on my tongue until I tasted blood just to keep from making a sound.
“You’re not there anymore,” I whisper to myself, hoping Shelly and Mack don’t hear. “You’re not her anymore.”
But it feels like I am.
