I edge closer to my dark protector.
“Now, wait just a minute,” my dad blusters. “You can’t speak to my wife like that.”
“You are not welcome here,” Dane says, each word a sharp, icy dagger. “Leave.”
“Oh my gosh, Abby!” Mama says, as though she hasn’t heard a word he’s said. “What is that ring on your finger? Surely, you didn’t elope without telling your mother.”
Uncle Jeffrey beams at me like it’s the best news he’s ever heard. “Our little Abby is married? We’ll have to throw you two a party at the house. A belated wedding reception at home would be perfect.”
“I’m not going back there,” I announce, holding my head high despite the nausea rolling through me. “Elysium isn’t my home. Not anymore.”
Just the thought of the grand plantation with its vile history makes cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. I will never return there.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Uncle Jeffrey cajoles.
Shock punches me when he brashly closes the distance between us and slings an arm over my shoulder like we’re best friends.
“It’s time to put all unpleasantness behind us.” He’s still talking, but there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears. “You belong with your family. Blood is everything.”
His familiar tobacco and amber scent permeates my senses. My vision tunnels, and my entire body locks up tight.
The empty gallery flickers around me, and a nauseating image flashes across my mind: Uncle Jeffrey is looming over me, his broad smile filling my world. His pupils are dilated, darkening his pale blue eyes with sick excitement. Massive, masculine hands are on my shoulders, so much stronger than me. His weight crushes me, and something hard presses into my belly.
The flash is gone as quickly as it came, and I’m in the gallery again. The ringing sound is deafening, blocking out my mother’s voice. She’s right in front of me, but I can’t hear her speaking. Everything blurs around me, as though I’m underwater. I can’t breathe.
Uncle Jeffrey’s body is heavy and hot, and I smell the tobacco of his beloved pipe. His face is so close to mine. Every part of him is close.
My stomach twists, and I lurch away from him, stumbling as I desperately free myself from his restraining arm.
I don’t understand what’s happening. All I know is that I’m about to be sick.
The ringing in my ears pierces my brain, making it throb and ache. I rush to the bathroom and barely manage to slam the door behind me before I fall to my knees and vomit.
Then Dane is with me, holding my hair and stroking my back.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp before I gag again. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
He grunts, but he doesn’t say anything else. His tension heightens the anxiety that rakes my tight chest like razorblades on my burning lungs.
He shushes me gently, his hands tender and careful with me, as always.
When I don’t have anything left inside me, I’m shaking and wrung out. My head aches, and my empty stomach is still in knots.
“Let’s get you home,” Dane says. His voice is rough, like he’s angry about something.
“I’m sorry I’m sick. You don’t have to stay with me.”
“I’m not leaving your side,” he growls. “I’m taking you home. Now.”
I’m feeling too weak to argue, so I allow myself to lean on him as he helps me to my feet and guides me out of my gallery.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re back home. I quickly brush my teeth to wash the lingering acidity out of my mouth, but it barely dulls my persistent nausea.
Dane doesn’t bother to remove our clothes before tucking us both under the duvet. I shiver despite the warm blanket, and his arms wrap around me, as though he can shield me from all the bad things in the world.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice still rougher than usual.
I peek up at him. “Are you angry with me?”
