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But I don’t need to. He forces Price to a stop when he reaches me, and he looks into my watery eyes and smiles. He fucking smiles, and I have no idea why. They’re going to lock him away forever! The only time I’ll ever see him will be behind bars. He’ll be dressed from head to toe in prison clothes. He’ll never be able to violate me in the most delicious ways imaginable again. I’ll never be able to touch him. To have naked cuddles. He won’t ever be able to slap my arse. I realise some of these thoughts are mindless and inappropriate, but I’m spiralling quickly into meltdown. What will I do without him?
He studies me for a moment, holding me still with those lazy eyes, resisting the pull of Price when he tries to tug him on. ‘I’m in love with you.’ He nods as he speaks, reinforcing his words, and I whimper, the tears pouring down my cheeks as Price pulls him away from me.
‘No,’ I sob, reaching for him, feeling Mrs Potts holding me back as Becker casts a look over his shoulder.
His face is serious and beautiful, his eyes bright and sure behind his glasses. ‘Don’t find your way out of my maze just yet, princess,’ he orders, his voice steady and strong. ‘We’re not done.’ He disappears out of the door, and I crumble in Mrs Potts’s arms, sobbing like I’ve never sobbed before.Chapter 37The ripe, green apple sitting on the huge replica of the Theodore Roosevelt double pedestal desk looks virtuous. Harmless. It looks deliciously temping and mouth-watering. It’s holding my attention like a hawk would watch a rabbit as it circles the open sky above. I can’t take my eyes off it. I don’t want to take my eyes off it. For then I will have to return to the desolation that’s kept me prisoner in its wicked grip these past twenty-four hours. Staring at this apple, simple as it seems, crazy as it is, has been my only few minutes of respite from the cold harshness of my outlandish reality since Becker was cuffed and escorted from the hospital. My eyes are nailed to the shiny, almost sparkling skin. I haven’t blinked and my mind is doing a remarkable job of blanking out my overactive imagination.
Overactive? No. Every dreaded, awful thought that’s plagued me in the past twenty-four hours has been completely warranted. There’s nothing dramatic or over-the-top about a single one of my fears. My imagination isn’t running away with me. I’m not being irrational. I’m not imagining the sick feeling deep in my tummy. My anxiety isn’t groundless.
My heart is quickly ricocheting off my breastbone again, a light sheen of sweat forming, my breathing stuttering. I force my lips to pucker in an attempt to limit the air that’s billowing from my mouth too quickly, hoping to regain a safe level of breathing before I go dizzy. My plan has the opposite effect, and I literally feel every drop of blood drain from my head, sending me light-headed. I’m hyperventilating.
‘Shit,’ I push myself away from Becker’s desk in the chair and throw my head between my knees. The breeze that gusts past my forehead tells me I only just missed the edge of the wood in my haste. I’m momentarily disappointed. Knocking myself out seems like my best option right now. Maybe I’ll wake up in twenty-five years’ time when Becker is released from prison and my life can resume.
I stare down at my bare feet. My bright-red toenails seem dull. Everything around me seems dull. My life is dull.
Because he’s not here.
My bottom lip begins to tremble as another wave of tears stream forward. Fighting them back requires strength that I just do not have, so I let them defeat me and watch as drop after drop of my tattered emotions plummets to the carpet by my bare feet, creating only the tiniest of splashes before the thick fibres swallow them up. My shoulders begin to jerk, and I remain slumped, bent over in Becker’s office chair, waiting for this episode of grief to pass. I feel small and useless. Pathetic and weak. I don’t do weak and pathetic.
I take my shaky hands to my cheeks and brush the streams of tears away, but no sooner have I dried my face, another waterfall replaces it.
The apple.
Sniffling and wiping my nose, I shoot up and search out the perfect fruit. Just focus on the apple. I swallow, my eyes narrowing and homing in on the green skin, my gaze so concentrated I wouldn’t be surprised if the apple shot off the desk. I hear the clean crunch of a perfect set of white teeth biting into the flesh, the rip as a sinful mouth pulls it away, the wet motions of it being seductively chewed and swallowed. I begin to see all of these things, too, and my eyes close, welcoming the distraction.
