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But it was a pain she welcomed. Punishment. Punishment for what she had done.
No! She must not think of that. Time enough to think of that—dear God, time enough! Now, all her strength must be on what she was doing now.
Escaping.
Her legs were trembling, there was dull, raw ache in her pelvis, sick muzziness in her head and clawing at her stomach, sick breathlessness in her lungs. Desperately, she hurried on. Sometimes her footing on the dew-drenched grass slipped, scaring her, but she recovered and pressed on. Always. The light was growing brighter all the time, the sun fingering over the far mountain. Day was here, and time was running out. She quickened her pace, half stumbling.
She dared not look back.
The path was getting steeper, the slope convex now, so she could not see the road below any more. But it must be there, and she must press on—press on. She was desperate for water, but had brought none with her, not daring to waste time filling a water bottle. Her mouth was parched, and the throbbing in her head had worsened. Acid was pooling in her stomach. Her gullet felt raw and scraped, her breath knifing through her lungs.
How long she walked she did not know—only knew that her thoughts were an agony. An agony of loathing.
For Angelos Petrakos.
For herself.
How—how had it happened? The question seared like a brand in her head. How had she let it happen? Memory stabbed like knives piercing her, twisting in her stomach.
I let him do it to me—I let him do it to me five years ago—just stood there while he touched me, kissed me, caressed me … then called me a whore … a whore …
Her throat clenched with pain. With shame. How could she have forgotten what he had done to her? How could she have let herself be lulled as she had, day by day, her guard against him lowering? Not seeing his intention, not understanding the danger she was placing herself in.
Until it was far, far too late.
Like an icy shower, she felt again that moment when she had faced the realisation that, impossible though it seemed, she had known that she didn’t want to leave.
Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid—so unbelievably stupid?
She stared unseeing out over the lightening valley. To have come to such a pass …
I didn’t want to leave him …
&nbs
p; The words hollowed out inside her, each one a blow.
My fault—my fault—my fault.
Her fault, and hers alone—her stupidity, her folly.
Couldn’t you see? Couldn’t you see what he was doing?
But she hadn’t—that was the agonising flagellating fact of it! She hadn’t seen. She had been so beguiled, so self-indulgently overwhelmed by her own responsiveness to him, her electric awareness of him, that she hadn’t realized. Fool, fool, fool that she was! Hadn’t realised how he was using that for his own ends! Using her to fulfil the purpose he had brought her here for!
She heard his voice—the last words he’d spoken to her—tolling like doom in her head.
‘I have the final truth about you now …’
The truth, terrifying and full of anguish, blazed in all its horror for her. That was why he had brought her here! Lulled her day after day into thinking his relentless hostility to her had ebbed, lured her into lowering her guard, making her so fatally, fatally weak …
So he could throw that in her face—mock her in his triumph over her!
Oh, God, to give myself to him like that—to offer myself on a plate! When all along …
She felt the sickness roil in her stomach again, the ache between her legs marking her shame—the stamp of his triumph over her, encompassing her destruction …
For a moment so brief she knew it was not real another memory cut across her torment.
