Page 32 of Possess Me

She’s changed. Admit it, Damien. Your wife has changed.

His skin seemed to prickle in the wake of that horrible truth. She was changing. Becoming withdrawn. Sliding into her strange fascination with Vivien Lorainne. Leaving the cottage alone for her excursions into town, only to return with silly, foolish purchases.

An alibi. The voice in his mind was harsh. Firm. The silly little purchases were nothing more than cover for her visits to him. The little bitch. The cunning whore.

Bile rose in his throat as he shuddered at the words, his hands clenching into tight fists as some buried part of himself tried to will the dark thoughts away. Thoughts that weren’t his. Could never be his.

And yet there they were. In his head, feeling real and right and raw.

Logical.

Aligning perfectly with the evidence.

And so desperately, horribly wrong. The little bitch thought she could get away with it? That she could—

No.

Focus. Dammit, focus!

He stopped dead on the sidewalk, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had to think. Had to make his thoughts move.

His thoughts.

Because something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And it wasn’t Nikki having an affair, because she wasn’t. She wouldn’t. He knew that. He knew it.

But something was wrong. And not just in his head. She’d pulled away—cloaked herself in Vivien Lorainne’s shadow. And he had no idea how to bring her back.

But it was him, too. He felt raw. Exposed. As if a part of him had been peeled away, leaving him open to every doubt, every whisper of inadequacy. Every flicker of rage.

She’d done this to him. He loved her too much, too hard.

She’d made him weak. Foolish.

Yeah, well fuck that. Fuck doubt. Fuck weakness.

Fuck her.

But even as that thought ricocheted through his head, another softer voice seemed to speak in the darkness of his soul. Hold on. Hold tight. It isn’t real. This isn’t right.

He cringed, trying to block the rhythmic, almost singsong words. Instead, he focused on the cottage just half a block away. The sight of it—quaint and charming beneath the moonlight—only stoked his anger. He’d bought it for her. For Nikki. He’d thought it would be a gift, a retreat. Instead, it had become a prison. For both of them.

By the time he reached the gate, his blood was boiling. He couldn’t articulate the source of his wrath, but it didn’t matter. He knew—somehow, he just knew—that he was right about her. About her deceit. Her betrayals.

Every kiss had been a slap. Every fuck a joke.

But why, why, why?

The question seemed to pound at his skull with ineffectual baby fists. No power. Only incomprehensible mews that quickly died in his mind to lay buried beneath the bitter red of betrayal and heartache.

Who the hell did she think she was, cheating on him? On him!

She’d made a mockery of him, dammit. And he wasn’t a man who would stand for that.

By the time he crossed the short distance from the gate to the door, he could feel the blood pounding in his veins, so intense he could imagine its sweet, coppery taste. Something cold and slippery coiled in his gut, craving the blood, urging him forward.

Despite hands shaking with fury, he finally managed to slide the key into the lock and then open the door. The air inside seemed heavy. Oppressive. As if dark things were hiding in shadowy corners. As if the weight of everything in the cottage was bearing down on him.

He moved further inside, his steps slow. Almost silent. Had to catch her in the act. Had to show the bitch who was boss.