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Hurt me, I plead as I move inside her. Hurt me, Cassie. Need it.
Her lips part, and she moans.
The sound sends me hurtling into an orgasm that shakes me until I can’t breathe. And then I try to move, and I can’t, glued to her, glued to the floor, sinking through it as if through quicksand, suffocating and dying.
When I finally wake up tangled in my blanket, drenched in cold sweat and gasping for breath, I’m not sure what I’m more horrified about—the fact the men turned into Cassie in my dream, the pleasure I felt, or the violence I used to fuck her.
Fucking hell.
If I’m about to turn into the monsters of my dreams, then I might as well kill myself now.
***
The days pass, slow and endless. The light is gray, the work hard. I’m back at the construction site, doing my best to stay focused. My back is killing me, but taking a sick day isn’t something I can afford. So I suck it up and keep working. At least the pain serves as an anchor, grounding me in the present.
Except for the times it hurls me into the past, screaming and kicking.
Zane is stressed as his wedding day approaches, but he likes my new designs and doesn’t even seem to notice I space out again while he explains another technique.
Man, gotta get my shit together.
’Cuz Cassie wants me to be her date at the wedding.
How stupid is it that I smirk every time I think about that? I mean, we’re friends, right? She doesn’t see me that way, and even if she did… Yeah, that’d be the worst idea ever. Better not to have her than to lose her completely, know what I mean?
Still, for some reason I feel like I used to feel about Christmas when I was a kid. Excited. Impatient.
Which is so fucking stupid, Shane. You never learn, do you?
My training time over, I trudge out of Zane’s cubicle, pulling the tie from my hair and rubbing my skull. Besides the pain in my back, I have a headache that won’t quit—not that it’s strange, given how bad my sleep is.
The shop’s mostly empty. The light in Rafe’s office is on, but I don’t see anyone else as I make my way toward the lockers. I grab my jacket and my gloves and turn toward the exit.
Muffled curses from another cubicle make me stop in my tracks. It sounds like Ocean, and when I turn that way, I make out his blue hair from the opening.
I hesitate. I feel… battered. Unsteady. Though the thought of going to sleep scares the shit out of me these days, lying down sounds like fucking heaven.
But Ocean has always been there for us, Seth and me, always checking in on me to see if I’m okay.
“Hey, man.” I lean in the opening of the cubicle, cross my arms over my chest. “What’s up?”
He’s braced with his hands on the counter, head bowed low. “Nothing.”
Yeah right. “Looks like a fucking bad nothing.”
“Fuck off, Shane.”
I narrow my eyes at him. That reaction’s not unusual when you prod a guy who’s pissed off, but it’s unusual for Ocean. He’s the sunny boy of Damage Control, always smiling and farting rainbows.
His back bows more, taut like he’s in pain, and shit, maybe I should call Tyler or Micah. I have no clue what’s going on here.
“Are you hurt?” I take a step inside, and he recoils, lifting a hand to stop me.
“Relax, sunshine.” He gives me a twisted smirk that’s more a grimace than anything. “I think tonight calls for self-medication. Wanna come get shitfaced with me? Drown our sorrows together?”
“I have no sorrows to drown,” I whisper, looking down at the tips of my black boots.
“Your dreamcatcher says the opposite,” he counters, and I flinch inwardly, wondering how much he sees.
