Her chest began heaving. Something inside of her felt explosive.No,she told herself,no.
The door between their rooms opened. Murad appeared. “Alex!” He started toward her, concern, worry, love, written all over his face.
She held up a hand. Her voice was raw—with good reason. “I want to be alone.”
He froze. After a long pause, during which his gaze searched hers, he said, “You shouldn’t be alone. Let me help you. Let me sit with you, at least.”
Alex shook her head. Her self-control was precarious, at best. “Leave me,” she said, hoarsely.
Murad appeared agonized. Still he hesitated.
“Leave!” Alex cried out.
He jerked, his face rigid, and left.
Still Alex did not move. She looked down at the floor, the bright red color of her floor-length silk gown catching her eye. She suddenly gripped the material in her fist and tore it viciously. The tearing sound seemed loud and abrasive in the silence of her room. She sucked down a sob. She was not going to cry. She was a strong, adult woman, a woman with an agenda. She could handle what had happened, she could. Because soon she would escape, and never see Jebal again.God damn him to hell for all eternity.
Alex thought she might vomit.
She thought she might claw the skin from her very body in order to cleanse herself.
“Alexandra.”
Alex froze.
Blackwell repeated her name.
Slowly she looked up.
He was moving toward her, his dark gaze riveted on her face.
“Go away,” Alex said in a raw whisper, meaning it with all of her heart—for he was the last person she wanted to see. She could not hold his gaze. She did not dare. Alex looked away.
“Alexandra,” he said urgently, harshly.
“No!” Not looking at him, she raised both hands, to ward him off.
He did not stop or even pause. He reached her and gripped her hands. Gently. Alex tensed every muscle she possessed. His hands were large, strong, warm—powerful. Slowly he pulled her hands down to his chest and cradled them there. His chest was heaving.
“Tell me that he did not hurt you,” he finally said.
Alex could not answer. She shook her head, her eyes on their locked hands, on the wall of his broad chest.
“Look at me, dear God,” he burst out.
Alex looked.
His eyes were moist. “I should have never let you go!”
Alex’s mouth began to tremble. Words, emotions, tumbled inside of her, seedling, writhing. “I … It …” She could not think, much less speak, coherently.
He crushed her in his embrace.
He was big and tall and powerful. The strength of his body was vastly reassuring, vastly safe—but it threatened the very foundation of her sense of self, of her self-control.
“Don’t,” Alex said, strangled, but she did not try to break free of him.
He rubbed her back, not gently, but urgently. “Tell me. I have to know. Because one day I will kill him.”
