“You?” Clyde prompts, blinking his bloodshot, mud-brown eyes. He pushes his chair away from the table, and I wince at the sound of it screeching across the floor. “You what? You wish you were never born?” He releases a dark, grating laugh. “Not yet.”
“My friends are waiting outside,” I say, attempting to be brave. “I have to get to the science fair. I just left a few things at home.”
I’m lying, of course; my friends aren’t waiting for me outside this shitty, rundown house. They’re alreadyatthe state science fair, waiting for me to join the exhibition we spent the last months painstakingly putting together. We won the fairs in our county and district; now we’re hoping to win state.
Clyde makes a point of peering out of the grimy window above the sink, looking at the street beyond the house. “I don’t see anyone,” he says, turning back to me. “You’re a lying bitch, just like your mother.”
I want to tell him not to talk poorly of my mother, not to speak badly of the dead, but the words are stuck in my throat. Clyde is going to hurt me; I know it. I can feel his desire to. It’s like an acrid scent hanging in the air. He fumes with it.
“She wasn’t even a good fuck, but at least she could cook—you can’t even do that,” he continues rambling, some of his words so slurred I can barely understand them.
“Clyde,” I say slowly. “There will be questions if I don’t show up to the state fair. Please, let me go.”
His upper lip curls into a sneer. “Trying to run?” he says, taking another step forward. “You can’t run from the mob. Learned that the hard way.”
He advances another step, and I contemplate sprinting to the second floor of the house and barricading myself in my room to call the police. But I’ve tried that before; the local PD is on Clyde’s boss’s payroll. Clyde will take an extra job, and his boss will make everything go away. Until I can get out of this goddamn town, I’m effectively a prisoner.
“Please,” I say again. “I’m sorry I make you so angry. I’m trying t-to…” I trail off as he stops a foot away from me. In a flash, his hand snatches out and grabs a fistful of my hair, then he throws a punch to my stomach that knocks the breath and strength out of me. I double over, falling to my knees, only for him to yank me back to my feet with the hand still gripping my hair. I barely see the move when he kicks out his booted foot, slamming it into my calf sideways, and a blinding pain overtakes me—searing agony, worse than anything I’ve ever felt before. Several cracks sound, followed by the squelching of flesh, and the pain is so terrible, I heave and crumple tothe floor.
I know for a fact I won’t be making it to the science fair tonight; I don’t know if I’ll ever walk again.
Phantom pain searing its way down my leg drags me out of my horrific nightmare. Sweat slicking my skin, I shoot upright and reach down to my leg, frantically ensuring that the skin is smooth, not torn by my own bone.
Someone else also sits up in my bed, startling me so much I release a yelp. Confusion overwhelms me as the past and present try to meld, and I struggle to comprehend where I am, who’s with me, and what the fuck is happening. A hand clasps around my arm, scaring the shit out of me. I claw at it frantically, trying to orient myself.
Dorian.His energy assaults me, seeping into my senses, and somehow, it helps ground me. I’m inhisbed, inhishouse, and he’s speaking to me, urgently saying something, but I’m still too out of it to understand anything. “Give me—a second,” I manage to say through strained breaths, attempting to get my racing heart under control.
I’m not under Clyde’s roof anymore, though I am being forced to stay in a house with three men who have relations to the bratva, are probably members of it. I scrub a hand down my face, trying to focus on small things. The cool sheets beneath me and around me, Dorian beside me, moonlight streaming through the window. Little things that cement me inthisreality rather than the traumatic memories trying to pull me back to another place and time.
My hearing is the last sense to return, and the first thing I perceive is Dorian speaking to me in an oddly calm, soothing voice.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, as if gentling a wild beast. “You’re safe, Mira. Nobody here will hurt you.” He’s turned on the lamp on his nightstand, and it casts a dim glow on the room, enabling me to see despite the late hour.
I release a rattling laugh. “You know that’s a lie.”
He reaches out to put a hand on my arm, softly sliding it up and down my bare skin. I realize that the only article of clothing I’m wearing is a shirt—an old one that dwarfs me, probably belonging to Dorian.
“It isn’t,” he assures me. “Nobody here will hurt you, Mira. If they try, they won’t like what I do to them. You’re safe.”
“Stop saying that to me,” I say harshly. “I amnotsafe.Nobodyon this fucking planet is safe.”
In the wake of my panic attack comes a rush of anger that I’m relatively used to. My emotions are always volatile after bad nightmares. Sometimes I sob for hours with no real reason; other times I have to physically stop myself from throwing things at the wall. Right now, the only thing—person—I want to hurt is Dorian, which is unfair.
“I… I need to shower,” I say. “I’m sweaty and disgusting—”
I cut off when Dorian leans forward, grabs my waist, and lifts me. Without asking or even giving me a heads up, he sits me on his lap and holds me tightly to his chest, nestling me against him. My knees straddle his hips, my hands press against his hard, hot chest. My internal reaction to this development is so mixed it fucks my brain sideways. Part of me is terrified at whatever’s happening here, of actually beingheldafter a nightmare. That’s never happened before. Part of me revels in the contact, in the physical comfort that he offers. And another part of me absolutelyseethes. I want to melt into Dorian’s embrace, scream in anger and fear, and go at him like a cornered dog all at once.
I don’t know how to control this confusing mix of emotions as they bubble up inside of me,needingsome sort of release. Usually, my response to nightmares is to shower and listen to music, isolate until the hyper-emotional episode that always follows my flashbacks has passed.
“Dorian,” I prompt. “I need you to let go of me. I need to be alone.”
He pulls back to study my expression; whatever he sees makes him shake his head. “No,” he says quietly. “You don’t. Being alone is the last thing you need right now.”
My anger rises, squashing the fear and longing. “How thehellwould you know what I need?”
“Admittedly, I’m not as good as you, but I am stillverygood at reading people,” Dorian says. “If you’re alone after whatever dream you just had, you’ll suppress your emotions. They might go away for a while, but they’ll eventually come back to haunt you. I know because I’ve been there, too. You shouldnotisolate. I’m not going toletyou isolate.”
“I want to hurt you,” I say through gritted teeth. “I want to break shit and cause pain.”
