This can't be happening. This can't be real. But his weight is pressing me into the couch, and as he lets go of one of my wrists to reach down to undo the front of his pants, I know with horrible certainty that he's going to take what he wants, whether I consent or not.
"Please don't do this," I sob, but he's not the man who charmed me over dinner anymore. He's someone else entirely, someone dangerous and cruel and completely without mercy.
Desmond leans down, kissing me roughly again. “I thought about talking to Ronan myself,” he growls. “Asking to marry you and then waiting for the wedding night. But I can’t wait any longer. After I’ve taken your virginity, I’ll go talk to your brother. I’ll make sure you’re mine.All mine.” His teeth scrape down my neck again, his mouth sucking hard at the flesh as I hear his zipper drag down. I feel something hot and hard against my inner thigh, feel him angling himself to thrust into me, and a hopeless terror washes over me, my chest so tight that I feel as if I can’t breathe.
"Just relax," he murmurs, his voice ragged with lust. "It'll hurt less if you don't fight."
My hand flies up, trying to scratch at his face, but he slaps it away with a grunt of irritation. The back of my hand hits one of the wine glasses, sending it crashing to the table, and before I can think, my other hand closes around the glass still standing, and I smash it into the side of his head.
Desmond lets out a shout of pain, and I see a shard of glass sticking into his cheek, blood running down his face. “Youbitch,” he snarls, lunging forward and pinning me, his hips thrusting forward. I feel his cock against me, feel him on the verge of pushing inside, and I can’t let it happen.I can’t.
I fumble for the coffee table, grabbing another chunk of glass. I barely register the pain as it cuts my hand, stabbing at his face and throat as I lunge upward, driving my leg into his groin.
Desmond recoils with a howl of rage and pain, blood streaming down his face and neck, one hand clutching at his cock. I don't wait to see how badly he's hurt or whether he'll come after me again. I scramble off the couch, stumbling in my heels for the door, my dress torn.
"You bitch!" he screams behind me, his voice thick with pain and fury. "You can't just leave! Get back here!"
I fling myself out of the door, running for the elevator as I kick off my shoes. I throw myself inside just as I see Desmond coming for me, his face bloodied and pants still undone, and slam my hand against the buttons, terrified that he’ll make it into the elevator with me. That he’ll force me here, take what he wants, and I won’t be able to stop him again.
As the elevator reaches the lobby floor, I bolt out, my bare feet slipping on the polished marble floor. I clutch my dress to my chest, knowing I look like hell as I rush out into the street, waving for a taxi as I look desperately over my shoulder.
I see Desmond behind the glass door, coming for me. A taxi pulls up to the curb, and I fling myself inside, shaking. “Just go!” I snap, and the driver looks back at me.
“I need an address, ma’am?—”
Without thinking, I rattle off the first address that comes to mind. It’s not my home—I don’t know what I just told him, but I have to get away from here. As the taxi pulls away, Desmond bolts out onto the curb, and I let out a whimper of fear. But he just stands there, his jaw set with fury, and I know for the moment at least, I’ve gotten away.
It’s starting to rain outside. I hold my torn dress against my chest, fighting the tears that are threatening to fall. If I start crying now, I know I’m not going to stop. I’ll melt down completely, in the back of this cab. I can feel myself starting to shiver, as if shock is setting in, and I know I should call Leon. I should call Ronan. I should go home.
But I can't think straight, can't breathe properly, can't do anything but sit there shaking as the driver winds through the Boston streets. I try to follow that line of thinking—what happens if I call Leon? If Leon finds out, then Ronan finds out. And if Ronan knows what Desmond just did?—
Ronan would lose his mind if he knew what happened. He'd tear Boston apart looking for Desmond, and when he found him, there wouldn't be enough left to identify. And then he'd blame himself for not protecting me, even if I was the one who kept the relationship a secret. He’d say he should have watched me better, known what was going on, questioned Leon about my whereabouts. The guilt would eat him alive, just like it did after Siobhan died.
The driver stops in front of another high-rise, and I realize what address I gave him. Where I instinctively wanted to go when I didn’t know what else to do.
I’m in front of Elio’s building. The listing he showed me when he said he’d bought a penthouse. This is who I ran to.
Yes,I think, staggering out of the taxi and into the rain. Elio will help me figure out what to do. Elio will know how to handle this without destroying everything and everyone I love. Here, I can think. I can make a plan. I can figure out what to do next.
I stumble into the front doors, staring at the darkened lobby. The panel to call up is on one art-deco styled wall, and I push the button for the penthouse floor, my hands shaking so badly that I almost miss it on the first try. The sound echoes through the silence like a gunshot.
A moment passes.What if he’s asleep? What if he doesn’t wake up?My knees threaten to give out at that thought, to leave me in a pile on the marble floor, boneless and unable to go any further.
And then, I hear his voice. It ripples through me, making me breathless with relief. “Yes?”
“Elio!” I lean in as if being closer to the panel can make it more likely he’ll come down. “Elio, I need you. It’s Annie. I—I’m downstairs, I?—”
Nothing. There’s no reply. My heart rattles in my chest, my entire body giving way as I sink to the floor, arms wrapped around myself to hold my dress in place. Tears swim to my eyes.Why wouldn’t he answer? What’s wrong? Why?—
Tears drip down my cheeks. I can feel my shoulders shaking, my chest heaving, on the verge of losing it completely. And then, before I can shatter entirely, the elevator at the end of the lobby opens with a softding, and Elio steps out.
He’s wearing black sweatpants and a tight grey T-shirt, his hair messy as if he was sleeping. The concern on his face immediately shifts to alarm when he sees me—really sees me, takes in my torn dress, my bare feet, the bruises already forming on my wrists, the blood on my hands from where I hit Desmond.
"Jesus Christ, Annie," he breathes, his green eyes wide with shock and something that might be fury. "What the hell… who did this to you?"
11
ELIO
