s clawed at me, but I mentally fought them back so I didn’t fall apart.
As was his normal practice, Amano uttered not a word as he drove me to my townhome. I was grateful for the silence. It helped me to concentrate on blocking everything from my mind. Everything.
When he delivered me to the front door, he dug out my keys and unlocked the dead bolt. I stepped inside and he followed so that he could set all of my belongings on the kitchen counter.
Finally, he said, “Ari … whatever I can do.”
That started the waterworks again. I turned to him. “Can you get my stuff from Dane’s? My suits are in the dressing room and there are some clothes in the two top drawers. A tote in the bathroom. Not the silver robe and nightgown. I don’t want them.” My voice was scary. Distant sounding, yet laced with a fragility that made me fear how strong my freak-out would be when he left me.
“I’d rather take you to the hospital,” he told me.
“They’ll ask questions. You know that.” I stared unwaveringly at him. I knew this Secret Service–type lifestyle was something he’d embraced for decades, after all, whether he knew Dane’s Illuminati association or not. “I can’t exactly say I walked into a door, right?”
His jaw clenched. Then he said, “At least let me clean you up. See if you need stitches.”
“I’ll do it.” I wanted to be alone. I felt the hysteria coming on and I needed for him to leave. “Will you please just get my things?”
“Yes.”
I could see he didn’t want to walk out on me, but I said, “Before Dane makes it home.”
“Right.”
Likely I tested his loyalty to Dane. But in the end, I suspected he knew that Dane would want him to do whatever I requested. Do whatever needed to be done.
“Lock all the doors and windows,” he said, his worry making me shudder. “Don’t open up for anyone but me.”
“I promise.”
He gave me another unfaltering look that conveyed remorse, an apology, condolences. Making me wonder exactly how fucked up my face was. The pain throbbed in wicked beats but a certain numbness flowed through me.
The misery of losing Dane eclipsed the physical agony.
chapter 24
When I was alone, I went into the bathroom. A peculiar sickness moved through me. Seconds later I was curled over the toilet, heaving. It took some time to get past the sights and sounds in my head. Then I pressed a damp washcloth to my mouth and the nausea eased.
I brushed my teeth and stripped off my clothes, wanting to burn them. Destroy all evidence of the evening so I never had to think about it or confront it, ever again. But that was impossible. Because I couldn’t burn away the memory.
Cranking on the hot water, I waited until it steamed my bathroom. I wanted it as scalding as I could stand. I needed it to overpower every other feeling, every emotion. I needed it to obliterate the hands that had squeezed my breasts and clasped my legs. To incinerate the words that had been whispered in my ear.
I was creeped out, disgusted, revolted. The list went on and on. Literally, worse than scorpions was another man, any man other than Dane, touching me the way Vale Hilliard had.
Standing under the spray that made me squirm with its intense heat, I let it wash away the blood and tears. I stood under the water as long as I could, but it couldn’t dissolve the pain seizing me. I sank onto the edge of the tub and the sobs came hard and fast, making my body quake again.
I wept for everything I’d started to believe in with Dane—the love, the bond, the dream we’d been building together. I wept for all that I had just lost—him, the faith I’d finally embraced, the hope that I could be different from my parents and grandparents, the optimism surrounding something that had made me come alive and had brought so much pleasure.
I was thoroughly wrecked. And so disassociated from myself. Like appendages were missing.
It took a small eternity for me to finally shut off the water and grab a towel. I patted it against my face, the trickles of blood staining the white material. Still feeling numb inside, I swiped at the steam on the mirror and bit back a gasp at the reflection staring at me. The cut on my forehead didn’t look as though I needed stitches, though I’d definitely have to keep an eye on it—and it promised to leave a scar. I squirted Neosporin on a Band-Aid and applied it to the laceration.
Inspecting the bruises made me cringe. My entire right cheek was black-and-blue. My jaw was bright red. My lip was split, though thankfully not bleeding now. Regardless, I was a fright. My dad couldn’t see me like this. He’d wig on a level I couldn’t even begin to process. And it’d be a good week or so before I could cover the remains of the damage with makeup.
I also worried whether my cheekbone might be fractured, but I’d monitor it as well.
Somehow, the physical wounds didn’t compare to the emotional ones. I’d left Dane at that house and, with him, I’d left a huge part of me. Making it difficult to breathe. But what was I to do? Just thinking of the ferocity of his wrath on Vale was petrifying.
Yet the devastated expression on Dane’s face when I’d told him to stay away. My God. That recollection sent razor blades through me.