"Are you? Backsliding?"
The smile fades. He stands up abruptly, and the wall comes back down.
"I need to finish." He nods toward the heavy bag. "Go find something to do. Stay in the house."
"Cesar."
But he's already turning away, dismissing me, putting his back to me like I'm not even there.
Fine.
I leave him to his workout and wander back upstairs, but I'm exhausted. I've barely slept since the spanking—too wound up, too confused, too busy replaying every moment and then touching myself until I came hard enough to forget my own name.
I curl up on the couch with a blanket, telling myself I'll just rest my eyes for a minute.
I'm asleep before I finish the thought.
***
The nightmare comes fast.
I'm back in my apartment in New York. It's dark, and someone is in the hallway. I can hear footsteps, slow and deliberate, getting closer. I try to run but my legs won't move. Try to scream but no sound comes out.
The door opens.
He's standing there. I can't see his face, but I know it's him, the one who's been sending the messages, the one who wants to watch me die. He's smiling. He has a knife.
You thought you could hide, Diamond. You thought Daddy's money could save you.
I try to fight. I remember what Cesar taught me—elbow, stomp, run—but my body won't cooperate. I'm frozen. Helpless. He's getting closer, and the knife is at my throat, and I can't—
I jerk awake with a scream.
The living room is dim, still daylight, barely an hour since I lay down. My heart is slamming against my ribs, and I'm shaking so hard I can barely breathe.
"Cesar?"
No answer. He must still be downstairs.
I throw off the blanket and stumble toward his room, bare feet cold on the hardwood. The adjoining door is closed. I press my ear against it. Nothing. Try the handle, but it’s locked from his side.
But I can hear something. Water running.
The shower. He must have just come up from the gym.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But my hands are still shaking and I can still feel the phantom knife at my throat and I need him.
I go around to the main door of his room. It's not locked.
I push it open.
The bathroom door is ajar, steam curling into the bedroom. I can see his silhouette through the frosted glass of the shower—broad shoulders, narrow waist, all that ink.
"Cesar?"
The water shuts off. The shower door opens. He reaches for a towel without looking, wraps it around his waist, and then steps out.
And sees me.
