Fear coils low in my gut, pulling everything inward.
It wasn’t just a dream.
Chapter 15
Exorcism
E
Steam drifts out of the bathroom and into the hall, dense enough to stick to the back of my throat. The rolling cloud sends my pulse racing. For a split second, I think Max is in danger, but as I drift past the door, the steady hiss of the shower registers.
The small vanity mirror—far too small for anyone to pass through—is fogged over, and the shower door is no clearer, offering only the faintest outline of her shifting behind the glass.
A high-pitched sound grates in her throat as I draw near. “Eek. Are you fucking serious? I’m naked.”
“I don’t mind that.”
I meant it as a joke, but it comes out darker than I intended. I’m done with false pretenses.
“Get out!” she grits through her teeth.
“No. We need to talk about what happened.”
There’s a long pause before she squeaks, “I have nothing to say to you.”
The indignation in her voice gives way to something softer and more fragile. She sounds like she’d stay in the shower forever rather than have this conversation.
Is she that upset that I tracked her here, or afraid of a repeat of that kiss?
I didn’t imagine the way she dragged her fingers over my chest, tracing the lines of muscle there, or the heated moans she breathed against my lips. She only ran because she was ashamed, not because she didn’t want it.
Then I see it—dark, diluted blood swirling in the water at her feet, thin ribbons of red slipping toward the drain. My heart stops.
“Max, why are you bleeding?” My jaw sets in the hardest line it has ever known as I press my incorporeal palm to the shower door. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
But there’s fear in her voice. Doubt, even.
“Come out, please. I need to know you’re alright.”
She doesn’t answer.
My teeth grind. “If you won’t come out, then I’m coming in!”
Half mad, I float past the glass.
Max stands under the spray, utterly still.
Water runs over her deep-red hair, down her shoulders and along the curve of her spine as her lips part in a silent gasp. Her hands rest at her sides, her fingers curled against her thighs.
Freckles scatter along the curve of her neck and across her chest, her skin flushed from the heat. I can barely breathe.
My gaze drifts lower, to her breasts, but I force myself not to linger—to assess, not ogle.
I inspect her body, but there are no visible bruises, no trace of violence—until I reach her head. Her eyes are bloodshot, but worse than that, a clot of blood mats her hair. Blood drips downher fiery mane, originating from a bruise right at the base of her skull.
“Flaming hells, I’m going to kill him.”
