With each note, Dexter’s grip on my wrist tightens. By the time I reach the mockingbird part of the song, his fury is uncontained.
“Stop it!” he screams, shaking me. His anger is so white-hot, spittle flies out of his mouth and lands on my cheeks. “Stop it!”
He drops my wrist from his grip so he can slap his head. He hits himself so hard, I’m certain his brain is rattling in his skull. If he keeps increasing the intensity as he is, he will kill himself.
I put myself in the line of fire by launching over his skull to protect his brain with my body. The first few pounds of his fists on my back cause pain to surge through me, but it’s nothing compared to the excruciating roars erupting from Dexter’s mouth. He sounds like a wild animal. Like his heart is being torn in two.
It takes several more hits and many distressed cries before the scent of my skin removes him from his nightmare.
“Megan…” The horror in his voice makes tears prick my eyes. He nestles his nose between my breasts before inhaling deeply. “Megan.”
No words. Even if I could build up the courage to speak as I did last night, there is not a single word I could express right now. I’m too scared. I am not frightened of Dexter. I am petrified of the absolute horror radiating from him when he peers up at me.
Realizing no words will ever comfort him, I return to running my fingers through his wild hair. I gather the droplets of sweat beading on his temples before working on returning the color to his cheeks.
Within a matter of minutes, he is back asleep.
When I awake several hours later, I am alone—again. While scooting across the monstrous-size bed, I take in the opulence I failed to register twice last night. It is beautiful, but nothing could have taken my focus off the splendid image I first awoke to, not even a room fit for a queen. And although my second awakening wasn’t filled with sunshine and unicorns, it was just as important as the first. It connected Dexter and me in a way I’ve never experienced. He needed me. I was there for him.
I just hope it wasn’t in vain.
After snapping at the voice in my head to shut up, I stand from the bed. The high thread count sheets feel like clouds caressing my skin when I gather them around my naked form to view the opulence surrounding me. I pretend I’m exploring, but in reality, I am hunting for clues to where Dexter went. He wouldn’t leave me defenseless. He cares for me.
I freeze when undoubtable evidence is presented before me. Dexter is sitting at a large, rectangular table, eating a croissant from a pile of many. When he notices me standing at the end of the table gawking at him, he jerks up his chin, requesting me to join him.
I do, albeit hesitantly. It isn’t because I’m not hungry—I am starving. It is the look Dexter is giving me. He seems put off by my approach instead of appreciative.
Dexter’s eyes lift to mine when I fall into the chair next to him with a sigh. I am so confused. Last night, he looked at me like I had granted his every wish. His look this morning isn’t one-tenth of its strength. Since I was medicated for so long, I’ve never had to handle the emotions I’ve dealt with the past three days. I’m sure over time, things will settle down, I just wish they would move along more quickly. Being this confused can’t be healthy. I am more imbalanced now than I was at Meadow Fields.
Dexter doesn’t help the situation when he drags my hair away from my neck with a quick brush of his hand. He sucks in a sharp breath when he spots the faint bruise extending from one ear to the other. It isn’t a disappointed gasp. It is similar to the ones he released last night before streams of cum rocketed from his cock.
“We’ll ice your neck after we’ve eaten. See if we can lessen the bruising.” His voice is hoarse, either from the dry croissant he is attempting to swallow or remorse. I’m unsure which.
After nodding in agreement, I pluck a Danish pastry from a basket in the middle of the table. My calorie-laden breakfast drops onto the gold-rimmed plate in front of me when Dexter snatches my wrist. My teeth gnaw together as a jolting pain rockets up my arm. Although his hold isn’t as painful as it was last night, the inch-wide bruise banding my wrist makes it seem as if it is.
“Who did that?” he asks as his wild eyes dart between my wrist and face. “Who marked you?”
I hide my hand under the tablecloth when he abruptly stands from his chair. Wood scraping across marble floors sounds through my ears when he pushes back from the table like a man in a hurry. I don’t know where he is rushing to, but he won’t get far if he continuously paces the same three steps.
Several minutes pass with him wearing a hole in the carpet before his eyes return to mine. They are even more desolate than normal. “Was it someone at the hotel? Did someone here hurt you?”
He stops shoving his fingers through his hair when I nod. “Who?” His one word is delivered so violently, it sounds like an entire sentence. “Was it the bellhop? Concierge? Who?”
He whispers threats under his breath, promising harm to the person responsible for my injuries. He will cut them, then castrate them before smashing their teeth in with his bare hands.
His pledge of protection excites me until I realize who they’re directed at.
I drop my eyes to my plate, ensuring he can’t see my eyes. With Dexter so caught up on plotting the demise of the person responsible for my bruise, he leaves me undisturbed for several long minutes.
I want to say I use the time well. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. My stomach is too twisted up to do anything. Even more so when Dexter places his hand under my chin to raise my downcast head two seconds later. “Who hurt you…” His words trail off when he spots the dishonesty in my eyes. He releases a growl so deep, two towns over hear it. “Don’t lie to me, Megan.”
When I remain quiet, he raises his hand as if he is going to hit me. It is a ploy to force me to answer him, but it frightens me so much, I start humming a tune before I can stop myself.
Dexter’s hand falls from the air like a bomb, the joyful lullaby weighing down his arm as if it is made of concrete. He takes a step back, equally sickened and remorseful. “I hurt you?Me?”
His throat works hard to swallow when I hesitantly nod. I don’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t want to discover the repercussions if I lie to him.
It takes a few seconds for him to read the honesty in my eyes. When he does, he goes into a violent rage. Dishware clatters to the floor as a painful roar erupts from his mouth. “You lied! You’re a liar!” He shreds the dining room apart, not the least bit concerned he is damaging the hotel’s property.
