Page 92 of Wicked Heat

“No. I’ll get you your money. It’s the rest of it.” He tosses the folder onto the coffee table, and those horrible pages slide out, then flutter to the floor. “I’m not doing that to you. I’m not making real every vile thing they’re saying in the press. Not now that I’ve seen⁠—”

He turns away, then scrubs his hands over his face before looking at me. “I’m such a fucking asshole, and I’m so sorry. Bree, I’m so, so sorry. After everything you’ve been through....”

He shakes his head. “No, no, that’s bullshit. I’m not dropping the terms because of what you went through. Because damn me all to hell, what kind of asshole puts those kinds of terms out there under any circumstances? That,” he says, pointing to the sea of printouts. “Every foul thing they call me in those papers, they are a thousand percent right. And I’m so damn sorry.”

I’m so shocked I can only stand there as he takes a step toward me, then kisses my cheek. I watch as he turns, then goes into the smaller of the two bedrooms. For a moment, I simply stand there, telling myself how much I admire his integrity.

I wait for the flood of relief that our deal is over. That there are no longer any conditions to satisfy before he gives me the money.

Except there is no flood. No relief.

Instead, I feel empty.

More than that, I’m angry. So angry that I don’t have a plan when I march across the suite toward his door, then burst inside. It’s fury driving the show.

Fury that has me scanning the room, then finding him pacing by the door to the private balcony. Fury that zeroes in on that vile sheet of letterhead with the single QR code on it.

I’m across the room in seconds, and I yank it out of his hands, tearing the page in the process. I wave it in his face, my body so ahead of my mind that I don’t even know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. Only that it has to be done.

“This.” I ball up the sheet and toss it at him “Everything that fucking code leads to stems from Rory. Everything stems from some asshole who was torturing me. Who grabbed me because I had some connection to someone with money.”

I have no idea where I’m going with this—not really. But the words keep flooding out as I storm back and forth in the room. Ash stands there, watching me as if I’m a bomb about to explode.

Except I think I already have.

“The money Nikki and Damien paid? That had nothing to do with me. That was to get Anne back. I was only there in that dark, horrible room because otherwise I was a liability. And since I was there, I became some sick fuck’s toy. Just the little doll he used to get his jollies.”

I poke Ash hard in the chest. “Is that all you wanted from me, too? Just a good time with the broken girl?”

He takes a step back, his eyes as wide and shocked as if I’d just slapped his face. “Bree, god, no. You can’t believe that.”

“No? Well, guess what. That wasn’t what I wanted either. To be some prick’s little plaything. But whether I wanted it or not, the bastard used me. And all that bullshit about me being drugged and asleep is just that—bullshit. It’s inside me,” I say, smacking my fist against my chest. “It comes out in my dreams. It comes out all the damn time. I never knew why before, but now I do. Because Rory put it inside me, and it’s colored my life for years.”

I’m breathing hard, my throat raw from the horrible, high pitch of my voice. Everything I’m saying is true, and at the same time I have no idea what I’m going to say next. I’ve never said any of this aloud. I’m not even sure I realized the truth until I saw the tape.

But it’s true. The torment I experienced has been hiding in my dreams. Creeping through my subconscious. Coloring my work, my imagination, my life.

And now that I understand—now that I know what happened to me—I feel like an elastic band pulled too taut. I’ve snapped, and I’ve been flung to the side, propelled by the violence of experiencing my own breaking point.

“I had no idea who my captor was—not then. And when I found out the truth, when I learned a guy I’d actually dated had done that to me, all I wanted was to hurt him. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t get to him. And then he was caught. And then he was killed, and I had nothing—nothing—to do with ending him.”

I bend over, my hands on my knees as I suck in gallons of air. I know I’ve lost it. That I’ve jumped right into the deep end. I’m almost scared of myself. But at the same time, it feels good. So good. And I’m not done yet.

I straighten, still breathing hard. I allow myself one glance at Ash’s face, then look away when I see compassion. I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to be outside of this bubble.

“I wanted to hurt him,” I whisper. “I wanted to so badly.” It’s all flooding out of me now, leaving my body cold and shaking. “But I couldn’t. I had no power. Not when he had me in that room. Not afterwards,” I add. “At least not until I helped catch him. And that felt good. But it wasn’t what I wanted. Not the closure I needed. And then he was dead.”

I draw in a breath, then another. “Now he’s just a ghost. He can’t hurt me. But I can’t hurt him, either.”

With a small sob, I sink down to sit on the edge of the bed. He sits beside me, and though he starts to reach for my hand, he pulls back. He’s only inches from me, but he doesn’t touch me.

Part of me is glad.

Another part wants his arm around me so that I can let out the rest of it. So that I can sob and sob until I’m hollow inside, all wrung out.

Because I’m not empty. Not yet.

“Bree…”