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We make it to the bed in a fit of passion. I’m losing myself in his kisses and touches. My fingers card through his dark hair, messing it up, gripping a handful of strands as he descends. He kisses my neck and pushes open my buttoned cardigan blouse. I moan at the feel of his warm mouth on my breast.
“Oh, Salvatore,” I mutter, feeling hot.
He says nothing. He only shifts lower. Prying apart my thighs, he grips them and wedges himself in between.
It’s as his mouth returns to my body, dropping kisses on my neck, that my eyes pop open. The warmth of his mouth has vanished for a wet feeling that’s almostslithery. That’s grotesque and repulsive. That unravels a coil of disgust deep in my being.
“Wait,” I pant, pushing at his chest, suddenly desperate. “Salvatore, I said wait.”
But Salvatore doesn’t wait—he grips my hips tighter and then sinks into me. My body lifts up on its own accord at the intrusion, which doesn’t feel good or pleasurable at all, but more like an invasion. His painful organ invading mine.
“Stop it!” I scream. I curl a fist and punch at the first part of him I can, his shoulder.
Salvatore finally looks up to meet my eyes. Sheer horror fills my heart. The face I’m looking up into isn’t Salvatore’s at all—it’s the hideous, scarred face of Cesar. His lip curls in delighted cruelty, the same way it had at the Mill, and he thrusts into me harder.
“I told you I wasn’t done with you yet. You think you could get away? You’ll never get away from me. This is happening no matter how hard you cry.”
I thrash and I fight. My arms flail in attack mode to push him off, but my struggles are thwarted. He holds me down and his hips punch into mine in brutal, nauseating fashion until the only thing I can do is scream.
My lungs lose air and my throat aches, but I only scream louder.
The bedroom door bangs open and in rushes Stitches, looking like he’s prepared to take out anybody he has to. He stumbles to a halt feet away from the bed.
It’s only then that I realize I was sleeping. I’ve only just now woken up.
I’m drenched in sweat and the fog of my mind drags its feet on clearing. I push myself up and rack my brain for how to explain what’s happened.
“Phi,” Stitches says. There’s a sympathetic frown on his face. “Jon needs to know about this.”
“He can’t do anything about it. He’s in jail. I have therapy tomorrow. I’ll speak about it with Keeney.”
Stitches remains unconvinced.
I keep my word. The next day when I see Keeney, I bring up my nightmares. I tell her how they’ve increased and grown more intense in recent weeks. The A near-identical frown to the one Stitches wore marks her lips. Otherwise, after jotting down a couple notes, she hardly seems surprised.
“Delphine, we’ve been over this. Distressing dreams are common for someone who has experienced what you have.”
“After this long?”
“There is no timeframe. It could be forty years from now, and you still may have them.”
“So,” I sigh, an ache in my chest, “I’m just going to have to deal with this forever?”
“Delphine, you sound like you’re shutting down. I know you’re going through hard times right now with what’s happening to your husband, but on the positive side, you have resources available. I can prescribe you something, for example.”
I leave her office feeling as helpless as when I arrived. It’s a feeling I’ve never done well with. At one point in my past, it drove me to take matters into my own hands.
Maybe I had the right idea back then.
My mind wanders to the last conversation Sasha and I had. I start down the block of the narrow side street and dig around in my purse for my iPhone.
Sasha answers after the second ring. “Delphine?”
“You said you had dirt on Polk. It’s time you tell me what that is.”
11
salvatore
