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When she drove out of the four-lane highway and saw the narrow stretch of road by the coast, it was like some malevolent force threw a net of suffocating darkness over her. She nearly lost control of the bike, veering wildly onto the grass verge, and copping a horn blast from a driver behind her.
It didn’t look remotely familiar. It’d been a moonless night and windy, a fine mist of sea spray floating over the road. It was fine and sunny, a perfect picnic of a day now. But it made her heart pound painfully against her rib cage, made her mouth taste bitter. Something was strangling her, wrapping her chest in tight restraints, intent on drawing the breath out of her. She was choking. She fumbled with her helmet, casting it aside and stretching over the tank of the bike to try and ease an inch of air into her lungs.
If only. If only. If only.
Years of that phrase singing in her head. Years of it dripping poison in her ear. Making her bury herself in work, fight herself every day to be better. If only she’d been a better person then. A better daughter, a better sister. If only she’d been more respectful, listened. If only she’d minded her parents. If only she’d not been so headstrong, so fucking stubborn. If only she’d understood that life was fragile, that consequences were forever.
If only. If only. If only.
Rand would’ve had a normal life. Ben would’ve loved her still. They’d have been a family.
And she’d be able to face her real self in the mirror.
If only.
Tears ran down her face, but she wasn’t crying. She couldn’t make a sound, except to wheeze. Her vision had narrowed to a fuzzy grey frame, and a pinprick of light. Her arms were too weak to pull the bike back on its stand and she could no longer hold it upright with jelly legs. She crashed over sideways and was pinned beneath its weight until, sobbing, she was able to drag her leg out from under it and curl on the grass in a tight mass of pain and panic.
She wasn’t hurt, but she was dying.
Right where she should have—twelve years ago.
Dying from this guilt she’d never shift, never be strong enough to get clear of.
And dying hurt. It made her head spin. It made her limbs shudder. It formed a ball of intensifying pain in her stomach with stinging tentacles that put an ache in her legs and turned her hands into fists made of stone.
And it was taking a long time. Too many razor-edged breaths eked out from her strapped tight lungs, too many acid tears fell on her face, too many words ripped like parachute cords from her mouth. A litany of her crime, a song of her sorrow, falling, falling, taking her down, until suddenly she heard other words, another voice; familiar, fond, calling her back, making it safe to come home.
Strong arms reached for her. Murmurs soothed. Comfort encased her, warmth gave her hope.
Jake.
“Breathe with me, Rie, breathe with me; it’s okay. It’s a panic attack. You’ll be all right. I’m here with you; nothing bad is going to happen. Breathe with me, baby.”
He was on the ground with her, curled around her body, holding her close, her back to his front, his voice in her ear, his hand on her heart. He spoke softly and stroked her arms til she could feel blood move in them again, til she could open her hands and hold his, til she could take a full breath and another and another, til the sobs came and her agony poured from her body in a new born screaming torrent.
“I killed her. I killed my family. I did it. It’s my fault.”
She was sucked into a black hole of self-blame and lost to the world, but Jake rocked her through it, lifting her to cradle her in his lap. Gentling her with soft caresses, his hands on her face, his lips on her cheek. And he stayed through the ugliness of it, through the stripped bare, painful truth of it and he never drew back and he never let go.
Rielle looked in Jake’s eyes and saw that he understood. She pressed her wet cheek to his and knew he forgave. But none of her healing full breaths brought absolution; they brought a craving to forget.
She wrapped her arms around him and tried to clim
b into his skin. She pressed her lips to his jaw, then her hands to his head, fingers in his hair. And when he shifted, readying to help her stand, she stopped him. She found his lips, stole a kiss he was reluctant to give, then another and another until his reluctance didn’t matter, until it no longer existed and neither did her pain. It dissolved in the taste of his mouth, the play of his tongue and the scent of his skin. And in its place was the flame of desire. It ignited in her and she burned him with it. Consuming him with her need to forget.
And he scalded her right back.
He’d found her. All Jake knew was the blessed relief of holding Rielle’s body close to his. Her mouth was a miracle, her hands on him, a communion. Her satiny skin and her gasps of passion were entirely holy to him. To stop from tasting her, from worshipping her, from loving her, would be sacrilege.
Lust raged inside him while he sucked her kisses and rocked her hips, his focus narrowed to the divine press of her glorious body and the soaring heat surging through his limbs. His awareness blunted, his good sense shot all to hell. In this act he was damned and he exalted in it.
But there was no suitable penance for getting so deeply lost.
Rand’s presence, his voice, his hand on Jake’s back brought sense, brought the crash of shame.
“Rie, what happened? Are you all right?”
Rand was on the grass beside them and Rie’s sobs began again at the sight of him. He was white faced and his eyes were bloodshot. She scrambled into his arms, crying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” in a strangled voice that throttled Jake’s heart.
