sniffle, part sob.
Zach climbed to his feet, the tangled sheets and bedding coming with him to hang over the side, taunting me with the evidence of our wild night of sex, one in which I’d been a full participant. The observation almost made me retch again, but I swallowed the sour taste of disgust burning my throat.
“Get up,” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. Once I stood on jittery legs, he herded me into the bathroom and switched on the shower. I clenched my hands into fists, eyes firmly shut as water flowed over me. The sobs wouldn’t subside. They drummed out in soft shudders I couldn’t control. If I didn’t open my eyes, if I blocked out his touch, maybe I wouldn’t totally lose it.
No, I was losing it. Pain was not a new entity, but this type of crushing anguish—the kind that made it nearly impossible to breathe, to think, too see beyond the next second, minute, hour—would make the strongest person crumble. And I wasn’t strong. Not in this moment. My thoughts jumbled, zipping through my mind so fast I couldn’t grasp any of them.
Save for one. Rafe was dead. Last night I’d lived a dream, so vivid I could still feel him against me . But I’d never feel him again. Never hear his voice, his laughter. Never breathe in the musk of his skin, feel the sweat of his brow at my breasts. Never again lose my breath to the vise of his hands around my throat. I’d give anything to get that back, even if giving up control terrified me.
Zach ran a blade up my leg, startling me. “Dry it up, Lex. You’re pissing me off.”
“I-I c-can’t.” A hiccup echoed in the stall, followed by another.
He took his time shaving my legs, and I let him. And he let me cry it out. Every atom of my body was fightless. Worthless. Eventually, he finished grooming me and tugged on my hand, urging me from the shower with a gentleness that penetrated the crazy state of my head. A towel landed around my shoulders, pulled tight in front, and he wrapped another around his waist before threading our fingers together. A hint of tenderness softened his expression as he led me into the bedroom.
“I know it feels like the end of the world,” he said, leaving me standing at the side of the bed, “but it isn’t. Things will get better. You’ll adjust.” He strolled to the dresser and withdrew clothing from the paper bags he’d brought in last night. “Get dressed.” He tossed a sundress at me.
I held up the garment by a spaghetti strap, not only taking note of the short hem, but how oddly similar it was to a dress I’d owned as a teenager. That particular dress had disappeared after some random guy had complimented my legs while wearing it. “It’s too short.”
“That’s the point. Put it on.” His mouth curved into a wicked line. “No panties. You won’t need them.”
Something about his demanding tone, along with the fact he was choosing my clothes for me, made my back straighten. “You wear it,” I said, throwing it at him, “since you like it so much.” The towel didn’t cover enough, so I grabbed the sheet from where it cascaded down the side of the mattress and tucked it around my body.
He crossed the room and stood before me, but I kept my gaze trained on my bare feet, refusing to raise my eyes to his. Anger radiated off him in palpable waves, and in my periphery, I saw his hands clench before unfurling. He yanked the sheet and pulled, rolling me with it until I fell onto the bed with my back facing him. The dress landed by my head. “Get dressed before I beat your ass.”
“I’m not your fucking puppet, Zach.”
Feet stomped across the room, and I heard a drawer open and slam shut. The ominous sound cringed through me like fingernails on a chalkboard. I curled into a protective ball, preparing for the strike of whatever he’d removed from the dresser. A belt? I stiffened as his strong hands pulled me toward him, rear end first. He inserted a finger in my ass, and I cried out,
Zach climbed to his feet, the tangled sheets and bedding coming with him to hang over the side, taunting me with the evidence of our wild night of sex, one in which I’d been a full participant. The observation almost made me retch again, but I swallowed the sour taste of disgust burning my throat.
“Get up,” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. Once I stood on jittery legs, he herded me into the bathroom and switched on the shower. I clenched my hands into fists, eyes firmly shut as water flowed over me. The sobs wouldn’t subside. They drummed out in soft shudders I couldn’t control. If I didn’t open my eyes, if I blocked out his touch, maybe I wouldn’t totally lose it.
No, I was losing it. Pain was not a new entity, but this type of crushing anguish—the kind that made it nearly impossible to breathe, to think, too see beyond the next second, minute, hour—would make the strongest person crumble. And I wasn’t strong. Not in this moment. My thoughts jumbled, zipping through my mind so fast I couldn’t grasp any of them.
Save for one. Rafe was dead. Last night I’d lived a dream, so vivid I could still feel him against me . But I’d never feel him again. Never hear his voice, his laughter. Never breathe in the musk of his skin, feel the sweat of his brow at my breasts. Never again lose my breath to the vise of his hands around my throat. I’d give anything to get that back, even if giving up control terrified me.
Zach ran a blade up my leg, startling me. “Dry it up, Lex. You’re pissing me off.”
“I-I c-can’t.” A hiccup echoed in the stall, followed by another.
He took his time shaving my legs, and I let him. And he let me cry it out. Every atom of my body was fightless. Worthless. Eventually, he finished grooming me and tugged on my hand, urging me from the shower with a gentleness that penetrated the crazy state of my head. A towel landed around my shoulders, pulled tight in front, and he wrapped another around his waist before threading our fingers together. A hint of tenderness softened his expression as he led me into the bedroom.
“I know it feels like the end of the world,” he said, leaving me standing at the side of the bed, “but it isn’t. Things will get better. You’ll adjust.” He strolled to the dresser and withdrew clothing from the paper bags he’d brought in last night. “Get dressed.” He tossed a sundress at me.
I held up the garment by a spaghetti strap, not only taking note of the short hem, but how oddly similar it was to a dress I’d owned as a teenager. That particular dress had disappeared after some random guy had complimented my legs while wearing it. “It’s too short.”
“That’s the point. Put it on.” His mouth curved into a wicked line. “No panties. You won’t need them.”
Something about his demanding tone, along with the fact he was choosing my clothes for me, made my back straighten. “You wear it,” I said, throwing it at him, “since you like it so much.” The towel didn’t cover enough, so I grabbed the sheet from where it cascaded down the side of the mattress and tucked it around my body.
He crossed the room and stood before me, but I kept my gaze trained on my bare feet, refusing to raise my eyes to his. Anger radiated off him in palpable waves, and in my periphery, I saw his hands clench before unfurling. He yanked the sheet and pulled, rolling me with it until I fell onto the bed with my back facing him. The dress landed by my head. “Get dressed before I beat your ass.”
“I’m not your fucking puppet, Zach.”
Feet stomped across the room, and I heard a drawer open and slam shut. The ominous sound cringed through me like fingernails on a chalkboard. I curled into a protective ball, preparing for the strike of whatever he’d removed from the dresser. A belt? I stiffened as his strong hands pulled me toward him, rear end first. He inserted a finger in my ass, and I cried out,
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