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Emilio chuckled and disappeared.
My mind hurtled back in time, remembering a scene almost exactly like this. I was sixteen years old, and I’d just pushed my baby boy out into the cruel world that would insist he be taken from me. I had been allowed to hold him, the nurses laying him on my chest for a few precious minutes before he was whisked away. I had looked longingly into a set of perfect, dark blue eyes that stared into my own; a piece of my own soul made physical and brought into the world.
Now, pinned to the bed by crazy Murphy, I looked into a different pair of blue eyes. But there was nothing loving or soft in these eyes. There was just a dominance that fed on my terror.
Hot wax was applied to my delicate skin, and then the burning began. Burning, and pain. It was hot. Much too hot. And as I looked at Murphy, I could tell they’d made it too hot on purpose. It felt like I had fire stuck to my skin.
‘You can cry if you want,’ Murphy said, his mouth forming a devious smirk. ‘They all do.’
I didn’t want to. But I did. I cried.
As my tears fell faster, his grin widened.
I hated him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DORNAN
He was sitting behind his office desk when she sidled in.
Dornan whistled. ‘Caroline,’ he greeted John’s wife. ‘Looking good.’
What he meant was, she looked clean. She’d had forty-eight hours to detox the junk out of her system, and he damn well hoped it had made a difference. But he saw the desperation in her puffy green eyes, and his gut clenched unpleasantly.
‘Fucking hospital,’ she seethed. ‘Can you believe they kept me in psych for two fucking days?’
She sat her skinny ass on the edge of his desk, right next to him, flipping her auburn hair over her shoulder. Dornan was amused. Caroline was young, twenty-five, and she was the epitome of a club whore. She belonged firmly in party girl territory, but he guessed she’d seen her meal ticket in John and taken it.
‘I wonder why you’re in here,’ Dornan asked, lifting his boots up onto the desk and crossing his ankles.
‘I just wanted to say hello.’ Caroline shrugged.
Dornan pursed his lips to stop from laughing. ‘Hello, Caroline,’ he said lightly. ‘Where’s your daughter?’
Her shoulders slumped and the light in her eyes all but bled away. ‘With Celia,’ she said softly.
Of course she was. In an instant his amusement at her predictability turned into pure apathy.
‘With Celia,’ Dornan repeated, dangerously calm. ‘And I guess you’re on your way to go pick her up, aren’t you? Take her home, cook her a real meal. Read her a fuckin’ book?’
He taunted her because if he couldn’t voice his frustration he would start hitting her with his fists. And he had to remember that she was John’s wife. Don’t do it, don’t do it.
Caroline hovered nervously at the edge of the desk. ‘Go home, Car,’ Dornan said sharply. ‘Go be a fucking mother to that girl for one single night.’
She still didn’t move, and he saw the unanswered desire in her eyes. Not for him, hell no. They’d fucked once before — back when John was in prison and Dornan was drunk — but he had nothing in him for her. She reeked desperation like cheap perfume.
‘I’m strung out, D,’ she begged. ‘Please. The doctor said I should wean off slowly. I just need a little —’
‘There it is,’ Dornan said sarcastically. He’d been waiting for her to ask for some smack. What she really wanted. Her begging was like clockwork.
Dornan dropped his feet back to the floor with a solid thud, standing with emphasis so that he was towering over the junkie his best friend had had the misfortune of marrying.
‘I’m sick of your shit, Caroline. I’m cutting you off. Get the fuck out of my face before I hurt you.’
Amusement rose inside him as he watched her panic. She was about to lose her shit right in front of him, and he kind of wished he had the time to let her. She deserved to beg a little, maybe even grovel.
‘You can’t do this,’ she stammered, trying to stay rooted to the spot as he dragged her towards the doorway by her arm. ‘I’ll tell John what you did to me while he was in prison!’
