Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(28)

Finally, he walks toward me, each step a loose-legged swagger, all confident, sexy male, every part of him lean, hot, and, right now, mean. He stops in front of me, towering over me, taller than I think I realized until this tension-laden moment. “You know,” he says, his voice a soft taunt, “since you’re so against putting clothes on, maybe I should just rip that blanket away and f*ck you before you decide I’m him. Or maybe I need to f*ck you to make sure you know I’m not him.” His lips thin. “Or maybe that’s exactly what he would do and why I need to just walk away.” He turns and leaves, crossing to the doorway, and disappears into the hallway. I straighten and consider going after him, but one look at my blanket and I turn toward the bathroom. It’s time to put clothes on and keep them on.



Coloring my hair requires that I let a messy mixture sit on my head for forty minutes, giving me plenty of time to replay every part of my conversation with Kayden. I also have a conversation with myself, in which my good ol’ voice of reason returns and I promise myself that it, not my hormones, will dictate my interactions with Kayden. Still, by the time I finish rinsing my hair, I decide Kayden gave me a gun as an offer of trust, which earns him the cautious benefit of the doubt.

Once I’m out of the shower, I bundle myself and my hair up in towels and kneel in front of the sink, opening the cabinet to find my clothes neatly folded, smelling of fabric softener, and nice and dry. With them is my Chanel purse, and a new toothbrush and toothpaste, both in unopened packages.

“He got me a toothbrush and washed my clothes,” I whisper, and I can’t imagine the man in my flashback being thoughtful enough to do these things. At some point, though, that man in my flashback had to have been good to me or I wouldn’t have been shocked when he tied me up. And I am certain that night was the night he’d shown me he was a monster. Monster. It’s a word I used with Kayden last night, and I don’t like what this connection implies.

Shaking myself, I grab the pile of my items, stand up to set them all on the ledge of the giant garden tub, and start to dress. I quickly tug on my jeans, only just now realizing a very slight heaviness in my skull, but it’s manageable for sure. I reach for the bra and stare at the label again, willing a memory of buying the fancy garment, but there just isn’t one. I put it on, and I’m pleased that even my tennis shoes have been dried. Fully dressed now, I give myself a once-over in the mirror and decide I’m too skinny. I need to eat, but I’m pretty sure, despite decent breasts, I’ll never be lucky enough to sport Beyoncé curves. I grimace. Right. I know Beyoncé but not my own last name. It’s infuriating.

“Ella, Ella, Ella,” I murmur, willing my last name to come to me as I squat at the cabinet again and locate the blow-dryer, doing the best that I can with my hair with no styling products, and when I find myself hating the dark brown color, I know the reality here. I don’t hate my body or my hair. I hate looking at a stranger in the mirror.

Giving up the struggle with my hair, I locate my purse, surprised at how well it survived the rain. Unzipping it, I set the ruined journal aside and freeze at the sight of the gun, not even sure how it and the journal fit inside in the first place. Wetting my suddenly dry lips, I remove the gun and set it on the counter, recalling the moment Kayden had drawn it and the blow it had been to believe he really was my enemy. I ran from Kayden last night because of Adriel, but if I’m honest with myself, I also ran from my fear that I’d trust him no matter what. A fear I still haven’t conquered.

Leaving the gun behind, I snatch up the purse and move back to my spot in front of the mirror, and do a fast job with my makeup. I slide my purse strap over my head, wearing it cross-body, and then I have to face that gun again. Dread fills me at the idea of touching it, and I don’t know why. I just had it in my hand, and, impatient with all these weird feelings, I reach for it, only to jerk my hand back and grab the sink as my mind thrusts me into the past. And Lord help me, I am back in that room. His bedroom. I can see myself from above again. I’m dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and I’m pacing, tears streaking my cheeks. And then I’m there. I’m in the past, living the hell all over again.

I stop pacing, my hand trembling as I shove my fingers through my long red hair, trying to calm myself, but I know that he’ll be back soon. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now. “I have to do this,” I say, and my voice is strong and sure. I turn and stare at a tall mahogany dresser that matches the bed I so hate at my back. My chest expands on a huge breath, and I walk to the dresser and sink to my knees. I dig through lingerie, beautiful, delicate lingerie, and uncover a black box. And I don’t let myself think—I open it and display the gun I’m after.

The image fades, and I gasp with the impact of what I just felt, shocked to find I’ve sunk to my knees, as if I was in front of that dresser all over again. And I’m trembling, like I was that night. I remember that night. What I felt. What I thought I had to do. I shove off the sink and reach for the gun, checking the ammunition chamber to ensure it’s loaded, and I do it with the ease of someone familiar with weapons. Someone who would know how to use one to kill if she so chose. Or needed to.

I place the gun in my purse and zip it up, folding my arms in front of me, a burn in my chest as I look at the woman in the mirror, and I was right. I don’t know her. “What did you do, Ella?” I whisper, and then grab the sink again to yell, “What did you do?”