“And you will not hurt him or involve him—or anyone else—any further,” I stated rather than questioned.
“Mr. Torrance would say you’re the one to answer that question, ma’am.”
Oh, I’m sure he would.
If I ran, if I complained, if I embarrassed him or misbehaved in any way, he would hurt me by hurting those close to me. It was almost impressive what a strategist he was. People could endure a lot, and he knew I’d have no problem risking myself to fight him, but risking others was a heavier burden.
Crane left, closing the door behind him, and I locked it, going around the rest of the downstairs to check all the entrances, windows, and close the doors to rooms I wouldn’t use. Finding one or more open later would give me a clue someone was in the house.
I took off my jacket and took out my phone, turning it on to call my mother.
Or trying to call my mother.
The phone wouldn’t fire up.
And then I remembered that I’d forgotten to plug it in last night to charge. I exhaled a breath, fighting the urge to cry.
Yanking open the drawer on the foyer table, I pulled out a charger and plugged in the phone, but I thought better of leaving it out in the open. Instead, I threaded the cord through the back of the drawer and hid the phone inside while it charged. He’d get it away from me if he really wanted to, but hopefully I’d get it charged enough to make some calls first.
How could my mother leave me like that? He got them packed, changed and out of the house in a matter of a few hours before I got home last night, and he or Crane hadn’t relayed a message, I hadn’t gotten any calls—that I knew of yet, but I’d check my phone as soon as it had a charge—and no one else had contacted me to let me know my mother was concerned or trying to reach me.
She hadn’t just left me. Arion would have, but not my mom. What threat or lie did he feed her to get her out of the house? Did he even handle it himself or did he use some of his dad’s hired muscle?
And were they really in the Maldives? Like all the way in fucking Asia? Ari always wanted to go. He would’ve agreed to anything to get rid of her.
But he wasn’t joining them.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Even I knew that.
Walking into the kitchen, I took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with bottled water, hooking the tip of my finger over the edge of the glass to feel when the water reached close to the top. Taking a long drink, I closed my eyes and listened to the house. To the wind and the rain and the floors, absorbing the hum of the refrigerator, the heater warming the water, and the silence.
Too much silence.
My blood coursed under my skin, and my hair stood up on my arms.
I still felt it. The same thing I felt this morning.
No creaks. No footsteps. No music.
No Mikhail.
But it was still there. The heaviness in the air.
And I knew.
I just knew.
I set out a bowl of food for Mikhail in the mud room and freshened up his water, just in case he was outside somewhere. I knew he wasn’t. He would’ve come back by now. But just in case…
And then I took my water and headed upstairs, into the bathroom, my eyelids trying to close like I hadn’t slept all night.
I set my water down, it clinking against the granite countertop, and walked over to the tub, sitting on the edge as I turned on the water. Making it as hot as I could stand, I sat there running my hand under the water, the steam wafting up to my face.
I closed my eyes, feeling my pulse thunder inside as everything else was so quiet.
I feel you.
I feel you everywhere.
The cloves on his clothes, the fountain on his skin.
The words on his tongue, the breath on his lips.
The hand on my neck, the sharp in his silence.
Down the hall. Sitting in the study. Outside in the rain.
At the open bathroom door.
Or right in the corner of the room.
Right here. Watching me.
He was always coming.
Or…
Maybe I never left. His words came back to me.
When he was in prison, he was here. When I wanted to want other men, he was here. When I danced, when I cried, whenever I was alone, and when I was quiet in a room full of people and thinking about him, he was here.
The truth was, I’d had what Michael and Rika had. I thought I had anyway. Those days were when I was the happiest. Even though it was a lie, it was the best I’d ever felt.
Damon.
It was useless to close the door. My fight wasn’t enough.
He couldn’t be contained. I had to let go.
I stood up, kicked off my shoes, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, letting it drop to the floor. I didn’t lick my lips even though they were dry or barely breathed even though I was starved to.
Calm and slow, as if my brain was floating high above my head, and I was watching myself from above, I removed my bra and unbuttoned my jeans, letting both fall, as well, and hooked my fingers under the hem of my panties, pausing.
No creaks. No footsteps. No door opening or closing.
But I felt him.
The cool October air caressed my skin, making the flesh of my nipples pebble and harden, and I only hesitated another moment before I pushed them down my legs.
Stepping into the water, I lowered myself, an inch of water underneath me and immediately making chills spread across my skin with the utter warmth. I almost groaned.
Closing my eyes again, I hugged my knees to me as the water ran, steam billowed around me, and my toes curled in the water.
The heat coursed through my body, settling my muscles and nerves, and making my limbs feel like anchors. I didn’t want to move, and I didn’t have the will to care right now.
Hurt me. You still won’t win.
No creaks. No footsteps. No doors.
Nothing.
What did he see when he watched me?
His enemy? Or something he wanted?
Was I someone to torment or something to play with? Did he know the difference?
Did he want me to like it?
What did he see?
I spaced off, feeling the hairs on my arms stand up and my skin harden like armor as I felt him, and anger and violence swirled in my gut, because I wanted to tear at him and hurt him and prove to him that I wasn’t scared yet.
That I was going fucking mad, but I wasn’t a baby.
What would he see when he looked at me right now?
My watery eyes, trembling hands, and huddled form?
Or did he see that I was alone? That I was naked, wet, and alone for so long?
So long.
I took the sponge and soaked it with water, squeezing it down over my bent knees and letting it fall down my legs over and over again. Then I did the same thing to my neck, moving my hair to one side and letting hot water run down my back.
Moving the sponge to the front of my neck, I tipped my head back, straightened my spine, and sat up tall, squeezing the water out, while letting my legs fall cross-legged and away from my body so the water could cascade down over my breasts and stomach. It caressed me, the warmth feeling so good, and I panted as I did it over and over again, rubbing the sponge down my neck.
And in your bed tonight, when it’s late and dark, and the rest of the house is quiet…you’re pissed and angry, because you think you hate me, but you slip a hand under the covers anyway, because no one will be the wiser if you indulge yourself in the memory of me…
I laid back, still only an inch of water under me, because I hadn’t plugged the tub yet, and slowly ran the sponge down my torso, between my breasts, and down my tummy, nearly reaching my panty line.
Tears sprang up behind my closed lids, but I wasn’t sad. Every inch of my skin buzzed with heat—with wanting something to happen, anything to happen—as long as I could get rid of what was winding through my brain and stomach like a goddamn screwdriver and pooling between my legs.
Anger and fury and heat and need so strong you’re a fucking animal, Winter. It’s primal.
Primal.
There was no sense, but it was strong. It was need.