Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
I set my brush down and sit back, taking in my work. It hasn’t been a cathartic project; it’s been an act of anguish.
But it’s finished. I can show it to Dane now.
I cross the parquet floor and open the door to the portrait-lined corridor.
“Dane?” I call out.
Heavy footfalls immediately rush toward me. He appears out of his bedroom and storms down the corridor. His dark brows are drawn together, and his eyes are almost feverish with worry.
“What’s wrong?”
I take a step back from his potent aura. I don’t understand him when he’s like this, and it scares me. I can’t predict his actions when he shows a semblance of human emotion. Will he tackle me to the floor again and force himself on me in a moment of twisted passion? Or will he snap back to his cold, clinical default state? Both are equally terrifying.
I swallow hard, and he halts as though he’s hit a brick wall, stopping several feet away from me. His beautiful eyes rake over my body, assessing me for signs of injury. Then his shoulders slump slightly.
“You’re all right.”
“I have something to show you,” I say instead of responding.
I’m not all right. My heart throbs as though it’s as battered and bruised as my body after the crash. The painstaking work of finishing my painting has left me wrung-out and emotionally exhausted, but I have to see this through.
I take another step back, but this time, I’m welcoming him to enter the studio. The moment he sets eyes on my art, he freezes again.
“Abigail…” He breathes my name. “What is this?”
“It’s me,” I answer quietly.
On the canvas, I’ve captured all of my pain and impotent rage, my fear and desperation. My face is contorted in an anguished scream, and blood drips from my split lips. My face is bruised almost beyond recognition, and my fingers are knotted in my hair, tearing at the delicate strands. More bruises encircle my throat—the violent marks from Dane’s fingers imprinted on my pale skin.
“Why?” he asks, his gaze transfixed on the disturbing image like it’s a car crash he can’t look away from.
“This is what you did to me.” It’s meant to be a flat statement of fact, but the lump in my throat makes the words strained.
“No,” he refuses. “You’re getting better. You’re healing. This didn’t happen in the wreck.”
“It’s how I feel inside.” Tears burn my cheeks. I blink rapidly, but I can’t stop the steady stream as my tumultuous emotions leak out of me.
He shakes his head sharply, a willful rejection of the truth. “I know men have hurt you,” he growls. “I know you’ve felt shame and self-loathing. I never want you to think of yourself this way.”
“No, Dane. This is what you did to me.”
He rounds on me, and I can’t help cringing away. His entire body coils tight, and I’m not sure if he’s preparing to launch himself at me or if he’s wresting with his own shadows of emotion. The only ones he’s capable of experiencing.
“I would never hurt you,” he vows. “Never.”
“You have hurt me more deeply than anyone in my life. Worse than Tom when he raped me. Worse than my family with their years of psychological and emotional abuse. You made me believe I loved you, but it was all a manipulation to get me into your bed. It was all a sick game to you.” I dash the tears from my cheeks so I can look him squarely in the eye. “You broke my heart, Dane. You broke me.”
His skin is unusually pale, and he looks like he might vomit. “I wouldn’t. I haven’t.”
“Look at me.” I gesture at the painting. “Look at what you’ve done to me, and tell me you would never hurt me. Tell me you truly believe that you haven’t shattered me. Lie to us both if you want, but I’m done being gaslighted by you.”
He stares at the painting again and shakes his head. Then he stares some more. The silence is thick between us, and I let him stew in it.
I’d expected to feel vindication in this moment, but all I feel is soul-deep grief.
Grief for what I thought we could be together, and for the devastating loss of love when I learned the truth about Dane.
“I wanted to die,” he rasps.
“What?” I ask faintly.
He finally turns to face me, and his eyes are dark with agony. “When you crashed the Jeep, I thought…” He swallows hard. “All that blood. You weren’t moving. You didn’t answer me when I said your name.”
His jaw firms, and he fixes me with a fiery stare that’s so intense I can hardly bear to maintain eye contact.
“If you had died, I would’ve opened my veins and laid down right next to you. I realized that truth in the moment I thought I’d lost you.”