I wake up from the nightmare with a gasp, shooting upright in bed. The suffering is palpable. Like a phantom pain, the agony from the dream lingers.
Dragging in a breath, I take a moment to ground myself. I’m here, not in the dream, here… alone, in a strange bed. I wipe away the hair that sticks to my damp forehead as I get my bearings.
Then everything from yesterday comes rushing back. My body retaliates to how I’ve treated it. Like a bitter accusation, the ache between my legs intensifies.
No surprises there. The last time I’ve had sex was four and a half years ago. I haven’t even used a vibrator since. I’ve been too busy staying alive to think about any other needs than survival.
Since the day I ran for my life, my only priorities have been my baby, food, a safe place to sleep, and not getting us killed. I prided myself on keeping a level head, even in the scariest situations. I’ve done that from the day I found out I was pregnant. And now I’m paying the price for losing my shit after just a few hours in Dante Morici’s presence.
I don’t know what came over me last night. I was desperate and angry. Feelings I’ve suppressed since the events that triggered the nightmare pushed up inside me until everything boiled over.
I fucked the man who ruined me and destroyed my life. What did I hope to achieve? I wanted to pull all the beautiful seconds out of my memory by the roots, rip them apart, and crush them under my feet. I wanted to desecrate the magical moments we’d once shared and trample them until all that remained from the romantic red roses and candlelight was a bloody pulp and cold, gray ashes. I wanted to take the false pretty and show it for the ugly truth it had always been.
For years, I’ve mourned what Dante and I had lost, the perfectly happy life we could’ve had. Regret prevented me from pulling the trigger, but I’ve learned from that mistake. I’ve learned that a part of my love survived in the shape of grief inside me, secretly thriving like a treacherous parasite in the shadows of my heart where my brain and the surgical blade of logic couldn’t reach it.
Maybe the kind of love I had for Dante is too powerful to snuff out completely. Like the residue of a potent poison, perhaps it will flow in my veins forever. I don’t have a word for what we had. It was too big to simply call it a relationship. It was bigger than him, me, and life itself.
But while that unnamable connection was everything to me, it was nothing but a means to an end to him. That’s why I tried to destroy those sad, beautiful, undying memories of gentle lovemaking and soft caresses. It’s the only way to exorcise him once and for all so that I can finally move on and heal. That’s to say if getting over a man like Dante is even possible.
Dante never pretended to be a kind man. However, he did pretend to be the man I needed, a man I could rely on, and he’d proved himself a heartless liar. But he also gave me Noah, and as much as I hate Dante, I will never regret the beautiful gift of my sweet baby boy.
The closing of a door somewhere in the suite pulls me from my thoughts. It’s dark in the room. The only light comes from the bathroom where the door is slightly ajar. I reach over and switch on the lamp on the nightstand. As there’s no clock in the room, I have no idea what time it is. There’s a phone, but I already know it’s dead before I lift the receiver and press it against my ear.
No line.
Dante will never be negligent enough to leave me alone with a functioning landline in the room.
I replace the receiver on the hook and look at the empty place next to me. The pillow is dented, and the covers are thrown aside. Dante slept here. Next to me. Despite the circumstances, the irony makes me smile a bitter, rueful smile. I would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious.
There was a time I would’ve given anything to spend a whole night with Dante. I dreamed about falling asleep in his arms. We made plans to make that a reality. One whole night with him is the price I paid for eleven people’s lives, and the night that was supposed to happen never took place. Everything was over before Dante had made good on his promise. The world had gone up in flames, and before I knew it, my dreams and future lay shattered at my feet. And then I became a fugitive.
My chuckle is dry. My voice doesn’t sound like my own. My vocal cords are still scratchy, my throat sore from where Dante squeezed his fingers around my neck. I’m sure the red marks I saw in the mirror last night will be bruises today.
I go to the bathroom and make sure it’s vacant, although the silence already told me Dante isn’t in here. After using the facilities and brushing my teeth, I grab a set of underwear, a long-sleeved T-shirt to hide the marks on my wrists, and my jeans from the drawer where some unknown person had packed my clothes.
After locking the door, I dress in the bathroom. I pause when I pull off the T-shirt in which I’ve slept to glance over my shoulder at my back. Thick, white, shiny lines are embossed over the expanse of my shoulders and midriff. The picture isn’t pretty. The doctor who treated me told me the damage was so vast that no plastic surgery in the world could fix it. Not that I wanted to. The mess on the outside reflects the damage inside. I wanted the nauseating picture to remind me every time I look at it that only a handful of people can be trusted and that love is nothing but a weapon in the wrong hands.
No one has seen the scars except for Noah. He grew up with them. To him, they’re simply a part of me. One day, when he’s older, he may want to know what caused those marks and what they mean… where they come from.
I’m not sure if I’ll tell him.
Because the real pain isn’t the physical torment. The real pain is the humiliation and the betrayal.
The shame.
And that’s mine.
Those emotions are private. Not even Jazz has seen the damage—fresh or healed—although she knows what happened. I trust her with my secret, knowing she’ll never tell, because she came through for me when it mattered. She’s the only person left I can rely on.
Of all the people I knew, only three ever stood by me—Jazz, my mom, and our housekeeper, Emily. I’ve lost contact with Emily, assuming she’s working for Leander now, and my mom is dead. I couldn’t even go to her funeral. I’ve never been able to visit her grave. The man who’s made sure of that is somewhere in this hotel suite.
Swallowing down the bitter memories, I finish dressing, pull on a pair of socks, and brush my hair. After discovering my clothes in the drawers last night, I wasn’t surprised to have found my toiletries in the bathroom.
Whoever moved my clothes here brought all my personal belongings, which isn’t a good sign. If Dante was only going to keep us here until my front door was fixed, he would’ve simply let me use the complimentary hotel toiletries. No, he’s planning on keeping us for longer and for reasons I’m still to figure out.
Back in the room, I go through the dresser. A couple of men’s shirts, socks, and briefs are folded in the drawers. Two ties and a dark suit are zipped up in a clothes bag that hangs in the closet. An overnight suitcase sits open on a luggage rack—empty. The pants Dante wore yesterday is thrown over the back of a chair, his belt lying on top of it. I rush over and go through the pockets in the hope of finding a key card or a phone.
Nothing.