Page 65 of Run Rabbit Run

I'm trapped in the meat of myself.

Ezra's thumb brushes my jaw, his touch a terrifying contrast to the grip on my windpipe.

"Nine days," he murmurs, his voice a calm, low vibration.

He doesn't sound triumphant. He sounds like he's documenting a result.

The video loops.

The ghost-Wren is talking about the way the light hits the valley.

My body betrays me with a sudden, violent shudder.

A heat blooms between my thighs, thick and shameful.

It's not just the friction or the fear.

It's a starving, wretched need for the only living thing in the room.

I hate the way my hips tilt upward, seeking him.

I hate that I'm hunting for his touch while he's the one who caught me, the one who's fucked with my head from the first day and called it a game.

Ezra notices. He always notices.

His grip tightens on my throat, forcing my head back, exposing the line of my neck.

"There you are," he whispers. "The real one."

The words are a slap, a degradation wrapped in a compliment.

He knows I'm reaching.

He knows I'm breaking.

His other hand slides down, rough and possessive, parting my legs like he's done it a hundred times in his head.

I'm slick for him, a surrender I never agreed to, and it makes me want to scream.

The ghost-Wren is laughing again, her voice echoing the person I used to be.

Ezra's fingers sink into me, deep and demanding.

I gasp, the sound strangled by his hand at my throat.

I don't pull away.

God help me, I arch into him.

I reach out, my fingers clutching at his broad shoulders, pulling him closer.

It's a desperate, starving motion.

I'm not reaching for love.

I'm reaching for the only hand that can touch me, even if it's choking me.

"Good girl," he says, his voice devoid of warmth.