‘Too late,’ I say quietly, whipping his eyes to mine. He must realise. My apparently beautiful and pure mind has long been tarnished with dirt, and not just Miller’s. There’s plenty of shit I’ve inflicted on myself, too. ‘Tell me.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ he breathes, shame now apparent on his cool face. ‘But I can show you.’ He slowly rises from the floor and holds his hand out to me. Instinct is working again, because my arm lifts of its own accord and I lay my hand in his. I’m pulled to my feet and our naked bodies meet, the heat of his bare flesh swathing me instantly. I don’t pull away. He doesn’t have a firm hold of me; he isn’t keeping me where I am. I’m choosing to stay. His fingertip meets my chin and pulls my face up to his. ‘I want you to promise me that what I show you won’t make you run. But I know that’s not fair.’
‘I promise you,’ I murmur, without thought or consideration, for reasons I may never know, but Miller’s small smile and then the tender kiss he places on my lips tells me he doesn’t believe me.
‘You never cease to amaze me.’ My hand is clasped and I’m led to the couch, unbothered by my nudity. ‘Sit,’ he instructs, leaving me to make myself comfortable while he wanders over to a cabinet and opens a drawer. He pulls something out before he slowly strides towards the TV. I can only watch in silence as he takes a DVD from a familiar envelope and loads it into the player. Then my eyes follow his path back to me. He hands me a remote control. ‘Press play when you’re ready,’ he instructs me, thrusting it forward gently until I take it. ‘I’ll be in my studio. I can’t watch . . .’
Again.
He was going to say that he couldn’t watch it again. He shakes his head and dips, taking each side of my head in his palms and placing his lips on top of my head. The deepest breath is inhaled, like he’s trying to siphon off enough of my scent and spirit to last him forever. ‘I love you, Olivia Taylor. Always will.’ And with that, I watch the distance between us grow as he leaves me alone in the room.
I want to scream for him to come back, to hold my hand, or just hold me. The remote control in my hand is burning and the urge to throw it across the room is overwhelming. The screen of the TV is blank. A bit like my mind. Starting to spin the control in my hand, I sit back, widening the distance between me and something that’s going to send my already crumbling world into complete obliteration. I know it. Miller has confirmed it. So when I stop spinning the gadget in my hand and my finger pushes down on the Play button, I only stop to wonder what the hell I’m doing for a split second before the image of an empty room stops me from finishing my thought process. I frown and inch forward on the couch, taking in the plush space. It’s boasting antique furniture at every corner, including the huge four-poster bed, and there’s no question that it’s all original. Wood panelling dresses every wall, and detailed paintings of countryside landscapes are hanging randomly, each mounted with intricate gilded frames. It’s so posh and I can pretty much see the whole room, which tells me the camera is in a corner. It’s empty, quiet, but when the door opposite the camera suddenly opens sharply, I fly back on the sofa, dropping the remote control to the floor.
‘Jesus!’ My startled heart is racing in my chest as I try to get my erratic breathing under control. I don’t have to try for long, though, because my heart practically stops beating when a man appears in the doorway. My pulse slows in my veins and my blood turns to ice. The man is naked – naked except for a blindfold over his eyes. His hands are also held behind his back, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out why. He’s restrained. My poor eyes feel like they could bleed.
He’s young, middle or late teens, perhaps. There’s no lean muscle on his chest, his legs don’t look powerful and strong, and his stomach is flat – no cut abdominals or shadows from the protruding muscles in sight.
Yet there’s no mistaking who this young man is.
Chapter 22