Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(40)

She pulled her hands out from underneath his and picked up the sleeping Killer, handing him back to Kent. She stood and headed toward the kitchen door. Xander stood there. The memory of Camille pressing herself against him, her hand disappearing between their bodies, stabbed into Isleen’s brain.

She turned back to Kent. “You’re wrong. It’s not a wound. It’s an abyss.”





Chapter 12


Fifteen minutes ago…

The swollen pink mound of skin in the center of Isleen’s forehead grabbed Xander’s attention the second he walked in the door. What happened? He’d known something wasn’t right. That’s why he’d called Row to check on her.

Hurt and betrayal etched themselves on Isleen’s face. Xander tried to go to her, to explain, but Camille—still pressed against his front—squeezed his dick dangerously hard, yanking his focus back to her.

You’re mine. Not hers. Xander heard Camille’s thoughts but experienced no pain from them. Just as he hadn’t felt any pain when he burst through the kitchen door and the frequency connection opened with all of them—except Isleen. Usually, conversation with more than one person was a formal invitation for the Bastard in His Brain to make a guest appearance. Not today. All because of Isleen. Something about being near her helped him have control over his hearing. It was as though she healed the damage done by the lightning and made him almost normal.

Row’s thoughts reached his ears. I think she’s going to blow him. Right here. In front of me.

Jesus fucking Christ. It was bad enough having to deal with Camille, but Row’s commentary—even if she wasn’t saying it aloud—brought the situation to a whole new level of awkward.

“I haven’t seen you in days, and you haven’t been returning my calls,” Camille said. Kent told me you haven’t left her side. You’re spending too much time with her. Maybe I need to remind you why you’re mine.

Xander’s gaze cut to Isleen following Kent out the kitchen door. God. Damn.

“Find us a private place,” Camille whispered. “I know what you need. You need my mouth. You need me swallowing everything you’ve got.” You’ll forget about her once I take care of you.

The mental picture her words created in his mind wasn’t erotic. It made him feel on the verge of a virile case of stomach flu. Being with Camille was wrong. Had been wrong for years, and yet he’d allowed things to continue because he was a selfish asshole who’d found someone willing to fuck him and not make demands.

Meeting Isleen had changed him into a different kind of person. One who no longer wanted a meaningless fuck. One who wanted more. He didn’t know exactly what more meant, he just wanted it from Isleen, not Camille.

Does she not know I’m standing right here, listening to every word she’s saying? Row’s thoughts were an invasion into an already convoluted situation. I thought her parents raised her better than this. And that my boy would involve himself with such a harlot—where did I go wrong raising him?

He met Row’s eyes. “This is on me, not you.” Then he turned his attention back to Camille. Part of him felt horrible over what he was about to do to her—he’d been a pussy for not doing it sooner. The other part was still pissed at her possessive sexual display in front of Isleen. “Listen, I’m an asshole. You know that. Everyone knows that.” He gripped her shoulders and physically forced her off his body. “But, there have never been any rules between us. There has never been a relationship between us. The only thing we shared is fucking. That’s it.”

“You don’t mean that. You’re just tired. You’ve been too busy playing nursemaid to her, but she’s fine now. And I’ve missed you. I know you’re not taking care of yourself.” Not the way I take care of you.

He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her toward the front door and away from Row who wasn’t shy about being nosey.

One day you’re going to realize that you love me. And you’re going to marry me. And we’ll live here and be happy and—

“Marriage and happiness are two things we will never share.”

She flinched at his words, taken from her thoughts. Her mouth opened to say something, but he sliced off her response with his own cruel words. “When have we ever gone on a date, Camille? Have I ever picked you up and taken you to the movies? Or out to eat? Or anywhere?”

“Well, no, but—” That doesn’t mean anything. It just means you don’t like to be social.

“Have I ever just called you, just to hear your voice? Or do I call with the sole purpose of schedule coordination so we can fuck.” He let go of her long enough to haul open the massive front door.

“But you’re not dating anyone else. You’ve never dated anyone. We’ve been together for so long.”

“Wake up. This”—he motioned back and forth between them—“has only ever been about sex. And now, I’m done. Done with this. Done with you.” With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her toward the open door.

No… Oh my God. No. I can’t be that stupid. Camille stopped on the threshold. Her too-perfect mouth slack with the realization. He can’t mean what he’s saying. He’s confused. “It’s her. She’s playing you, making you feel like the hero to her damsel in distress. Wake up and see what’s happening. Are you willing to throw away our years together over some girl who’s not even pretty? And her hair—it looks like she hacked at it with a pair of pruning sheers. In the dark. Without a mirror.”