Heat licks up my spine, and I hate it and want it at the same time.
Marlowe hesitates in the doorway and looks up at me.
I should step back and give her room. Ishouldn’tbe standing this close.
But I don’t move. Thing is, neither does she. I can feel the heat of her body, see the rise and fall of her chest, watch as a single drop of water slides down the side of her throat, disappearing beneath the damp collar of her shirt.
I hate myself for wanting to touch her. But I do. I want to touch her everywhere.
She inhales sharply, and for a second, I swear she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Fuck me, I think she’s thinking it too.
Then she steps inside and slams the door in my face.
Chapter Sixteen
MARLOWE
Oddly, the bathroom is spotless.
The white tiles gleam under the dim light. The sink is dry, the mirror smudgeless—even the toilet lid is down.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and press my knees together.Lo, just breathe. I close my eyes, but the second I do, everything crashes down on me. Delilah’s fragile hands shaking in mine. The raw fear in her eyes. The way she didn’t recognize her own sons. How deep she slipped into another world, another time, completely gone from the present.
I keep seeing the ache in Damian’s face when she screamed at him.
Then there’s the way he looked at me. He thought I was something dangerous, even though I was trying to help. I bothered him. I got under his skin. He hated me for stepping in, for doing something he couldn’t.
But then, later, his gazechanged. It was full of heat.
I press my fingers to my temples, working slow circles into my skin. I can’t do this right now. I don’t have time for this. I need to focus. I need to figure out how the hell I’m going to get to my father’s place, how I’m going to fix his mess. I need to getback home. It’s already Wednesday. Three days until the grand opening of the bakery. One more day to get Joel his money back. And I still can’t believe the one guy I had incredible sex with turned out to be a total psychopath.
What’s worse? I’d totally have sex with him again.
Clearly, years of therapy haven’t worked for me. I probably need an exorcism.
The pressure in my head builds. My vision blurs, and suddenly, hot, silent tears spill over, sliding down my cheeks, dropping onto my damp shirt. I don’t make a sound. I just sit there, fists clenched, heart racing, tears falling, breaking under the stress of it all.
I let myself break for a few moments, then drag the back of my hand across my cheeks, wiping away the tears. I can’t let myself fall apart. Not right now. When this is all over and I’m home safe, I’ll be able to unpack it all and deal with it. This will all be over soon. I force myself to repeat the words even though they ring hollow in my mind.
I reach for the hem of my soaked shirt and peel it off, the wet fabric sticking to me stubbornly before dropping to the floor in a heavy slap. The air-conditioned air prickles over my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering beneath the surface.
I glance up, catching my reflection in the mirror. I’m a mess. Damp hair clings to my shoulders, stray strands curling along my throat. My skin is tight from the chill, but beneath it, there’s something warmer, somethinghotter, a small, insidious tug of want coiling low in my stomach.
I hate it.
I hate that even now, with everything going on, I still feel him. I despise how my tongue still remembers the way Damian tasted, and how I can still hear his filthy, perfect words from when he made me come.
And I hate more than anything that I really freaking liked being with him. I want him to fuck me like that again. What does that say about me? That even after everything, some broken part of me still craves his touch.
God, I don’t need an exorcist. I need to be burned at the stake.
I turn away from the mirror, forcing myself to push the thoughts away. I grab a dry shirt from my backpack and pull it over my head. I dress quickly, listening to the sounds beyond the bathroom door. The brothers’ voices are too low to discern, but the rumble of Damian’s voice is unmistakable. It’s tight, edged, like he’s still wound up.
“This will all be over soon,” I whisper it out loud five times. We’ll drive out to my father’s place, I’ll get what I came for, and then I’ll be gone. That’s the plan. That’s how this ends. I repeat it over and over.
I grab a Fruit Roll-Up from the front pouch of my bag and unwrap it quickly. The first bite floods my mouth with sharp artificial sweetness, tangy and bright. I eat fast, my jaw working as I pull at the sticky fruit strip, letting the sugar jolt something back to life inside me.
Tossing the empty wrapper back into my bag, I pull my damp hair up, twisting it into a messy bun at the crown of my head. Strands slip loose at my temples, curling slightly from the rain. I don’t care how messy it looks, I just need it off my face.
