“Help me!” I screeched, but the words choked as both of my hands clamped around my bleeding throat. The warmth. The wetness. The horror made it hard to think. Hard to breathe.
Would I bleed out like an animal?
“Somebody, please help!”
Chapter 16
I shot up in bed like I’d just fought my way back to the surface of a pool. Both of my hands were clamped around my neck, trying to stop the bleeding. I was almost choking myself without meaning to.
I stared into the unfamiliar room, my brain scrambling to catch up. Where the hell was I?
The sheets smelled clean. Salty air drifted in through the cracked windows, mixing with a floral scent. Roses maybe? Everything looked like one of those seaside resort hotels, the kind with overpriced water bottles and handmade soap in the bathroom.
My gaze snapped to the chair beside the window, the one where Mochi’s cage usually was. It was empty now. Daniel was gone too.
The nightstand held my laptop.
And then it hit me.
The Breakers.
I was at the Breakers.
It had been just a dream.
No. Not a dream.
I jumped out of bed and rushed to the large golden mirror on the wall. Tilting my head, I pulled the nightgown away from my collarbone, exposing the side of my neck. My fingers flew to the spot where the nail from the floorboard had rammed into me.
The scar started right there. Right where the nail had stabbed me.
I stumbled backward, one hand catching the corner of the dresser. My heart pounded. Part of me was horrified. The other part was shaken but in awe.
This wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory. A flashback from my childhood.
For years, I’d searched for them. Sat through endless hours of therapy. Lived through nightmares and PTSD flare-ups, chasing scraps of a childhood I couldn’t remember.
And here, now, at the Breakers, I finally did.
I remembered.
Not a good part. Not something sweet or innocent. But that didn’t shock me. PTSD buried trauma, not pony rides and birthday cake. And the scar... The scar proved it.
All those years, I’d believed my dad wasn’t violent. But he was. So I’d buried it deep, probably subconsciously thinking I was protecting myself. It was a classic PTSD move.
And my mother, who’d once waved off my uncle’s failed rape attempt as if it were a bad joke, hadn’t told me any of this. Not to protect me but to protect him. The man who’d hurt me.
I shook my head, horrified.
And yet...God, I was grateful. Grateful for this awful truth that finally pointed to something real.
I felt a burning pressure in my chest, my eyes, my throat. The tears pushed through.
My own family. My own blood.
I took a breath. Deep. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
My hands were still shaking, but not as badly.
