Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(10)

I glance down at my hands where they rest on the bedcover, and at least they are familiar. They are me—but this bed is not, and neither is my letting these men use me as the rope in a game of tug-of-war. It is a relief to know this about myself. To know I am strong, and a person of action, not inaction. A person who gets up and looks in that mirror. Yes. I have to face myself, and maybe, just maybe, if I see me, I’ll fully know me, and Kayden’s motives, innocent or not, will be revealed along with my past.

The idea spurs me into action, and I throw off the blanket and lower the railing. Shoving the skimpy gown down my legs the best I can, I rotate to let my feet dangle off the edge of the bed, grimacing at the buzz in my head, a weakness that forces me to pause to let it pass. The instant it eases, I scoot farther to the edge of the mattress, trying to make the step to the floor as small as possible.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jolting at the sound of Kayden’s voice, I stretch my legs down to the ground to make my escape, only to have my head spin and my body sway. Gasping, I start to tumble forward, saved as Kayden catches me, dragging me forward, my body landing flat against his larger, harder one.

“What are you doing?” I demand, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath my palm where it now rests on the solid wall of his chest. Or maybe it’s my heart pounding so hard that it feels like his.

“Keeping you from ending up inside another MRI machine. What were you thinking?”

“That I need to go to the bathroom,” I say, his touch humming through my body just as the detective’s warnings hum in my mind. “I’m fine now.” I try to twist away from him but he holds on to me, and I shove against him. “You can let go of me, Kayden.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he promises, his voice low, as seductive as everything else about this man is, and when I look at him, that wolf is back in his eyes as he adds, “In case I didn’t make that point already.”

“You have, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.” I try to push away again, yelping as he scoops me up and starts walking.

“I can walk,” I insist, appalled that my bare backside is hanging out of the gown, and pressed to his forearms. “Put me down, Kayden. Put me down.”

He complies in front of the bathroom door, and when I would escape, his arms cage me as he opens the door. I try to turn, but his hands come down on my shoulders, and he begins walking me inside the bathroom. The instant the mirror looms in front of me, adrenaline surges through me, giving me the extra fierceness I need to twist around to face him, only to cause a collision of our bodies.

Stunned, I freeze, my hands on his chest, my legs intimately aligned with his, and when our eyes meet, the look in his is unbridled passion, as possessive as it is hot. I’m scorched in every place he touches, and every place I suddenly want him to touch. Desperate to maintain what objectivity I have left with this man, which I’ve already determined is not much, I shove back from him, hitting the sink, catching myself on the cold surface.

He doesn’t move. He just stands before me, power and sex wafting off him like a seductive drug that if tried once would surely become a dangerous addiction. A second passes. Then two. On three, the tension between us is palpable and I can take it no more. “I can’t use the bathroom when you’re here. You’re hovering like you think I’m going to escape through some secret passageway.”

He arches a brow. “Escape? Is that what you want? To escape?”

Not from you, I think, but good sense prevails and I instead reply with, “Should I?”

And as if he’s read my mind, he says, “Not from me,” and just like that, he’s backed out of the room and shut the door, leaving me stunned and staring at the spot he’s left empty. What did that mean? Not from him? From who, then? Was he being literal? Surely he wasn’t. The longer I try to figure out the answer, the more the silence around me grows, and so does my awareness of what I’m avoiding. The mirror. I’m avoiding the mirror.

“Turn around,” I whisper, but just thinking about doing it stirs a flutter in my belly that’s darn near painful, and I know then that the doctor was right. I’m suppressing my memories. I’m afraid of what is in my own mind, and it’s a terrifying realization. What could be so bad that I’d rather leave myself behind than face it?

Inhaling against the pressure building in my chest, aware that I have to get past my fear, I mentally prepare myself to just get it over with. Another deep breath and I whirl around to face myself, but chicken out, clutching the sink and letting my head drop forward, my hair draping my face. Brown hair. A deep mahogany brown that falls to my breasts, and yet I hadn’t even noticed the color until now. I pant out a few more breaths and force myself to lift my chin, bringing my image into view.

And then I wait for the eruption that doesn’t happen. And I wait some more. Still nothing, and I begin analyzing myself like I’m some sort of a lab specimen. My face is heart-shaped, my eyes a deep green. My skin ivory. There’s a smattering of freckles on my nose I’m not overly fond of, but none of this helps me. I’m completely disconnected from the image in the mirror.

Frustrated, I curl my fingers into my palms where they rest on the sink, squeezing my eyes shut and promising myself that when I open them, my reaction will be different. Instead, my mind rewards me with one single memory, and I find myself standing inside what looks like an apartment, laughing with a pretty brunette. And there is no disconnect from her. Just seeing her softens a hard spot inside of me, easing the tension along my spine. She’s a friend. Someone I love. I slip deeper into the memory, and the images play like a silent movie. I watch in wonder, reveling in every second. She begins to fade, and I try to pull her back but fail, only to realize that I don’t know her name any more than I know mine.