Echo (Black Lotus #2)(11)

“Then why does it feel like it’s slipping away?”

“It’s not. I promise you, it’s not. You’re just scared, but you have me now. I’ll take all that fear away, every piece of it that you carry around. I’ll take it away. I’ll give you everything you deserve from this life. I’ll do what I can to make up for all your suffering.”

I couldn’t ever dream of a better man existing, and I never wanted to fall in love with him, but I did. It was wicked and vicious and utterly beautiful, and it was mine. For a moment, he was mine.

And now . . .

He’s dead.

And so am I.

His blood is deep inside of me—I made sure of its home—but it isn’t enough to save me. Nothing is enough, and the anguish is boundless. There’s no release, no cleansing, no Pike to take it all away. I’ve lost my vice to relieve the ache, to give me my escape, to numb me. It’s overpowering, a red river of loathing, a debilitating and suffocating stabbing in the core of my very essence.

It breeds inside of me and my body chills in anxiety. A shrill ring echoes in my ears.

Bleeding, screaming, a tourniquet around ventricles pleading for relief.

Memories of his words strangle me, a noose tightening around my neck.

“We could have a life.” “You love me, right?” “I know what I want, and that’s a life with you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get that.”

I can’t breathe.

“Excuse me,” I stutter breathlessly as I stumble in a rush to the lavatory.

Locking the door behind me, I brace my hands on the sink and stare into my hollow eyes. I attempt to inhale slowly, but my body doesn’t allow it. A sheen of sweat coats my pale face, drained of blood, and the hunger inside of me needs to be fed. I need to expel it before it kills me.

My fist takes a life of its own, balling up and slamming itself into my sternum.

Again.

Again.

Knuckles pounding against frail bone, and with every infliction, the ringing in my ears dulls and my lungs begin to fill with much-needed air. I punch myself again and again and again, over and over, busting capillaries with each violent blow. Warmth spreads through my wounded flesh, and when my cheeks heat with tears, I fall back onto the toilet, my hands pressed against the wall of the tiny bathroom as I pant from exertion. My mind clears, but I’m confused by what just happened and why it brought me relief—pleasure, really. The tormenting sadness is gone, freed by the pain I just unleashed on myself.

That was the moment I discovered my new drug. It no longer came in the comfort of Pike or Declan. No. It came from the devil’s hand—my hand—and in that moment, I felt a sense of power in my ability to stave off the misery with a blissful brutality that births an endorphined high.

Sighing in refreshed relief, I stand and right myself in front of the mirror before lifting the hem of my top to see the destruction on my body. When I observe the blood pooling beneath my skin, swelling in pink glory, I smile in pride. Contusions mar my skin in reward, and I’m pacified.

This is pain I can deal with. No longer do I have anyone to lean on to alleviate this discord inside of me. All I have is myself. So with a sickening delight, I enjoy my moment of assuagement before returning to my seat to cradle my doll.



LANDING, CUSTOMS, BAGGAGE claim, and rental car. Here I sit in the parking lot, on the other side of the world from where I just came from.

Alone with no plan, no direction.

I sit awkwardly on the right side of the car, wondering if I’ll be able to drive without killing myself or someone else. No time like the present.

“Here we go,” I murmur to myself and then shift the car to pull out of the parking space.

As I leave the airport and start driving through Edinburgh, the scenery astounds me. Declan wasn’t lying when he said the landscapes were breathtaking. Freezing rain falls from the dark, grey sky over the Old World city. Stone buildings from another lifetime line the streets, and I’m in awe of the historic beauty. Horns honking pull me away from the sights, and I quickly yank the steering wheel when I realize I’m entering a round-a-bout the wrong way.

“Shit,” I screech while waving my hand in apology to the other drivers I nearly sideswiped. Driving on the opposite side of the car, opposite side of the street, has me tense and thrown off.

Turning out of the circle of death, I resume cautiously until I find a place to stop to get a bite to eat. I’m drained from traveling, and when I walk into the quiet restaurant, the hostess sits me at a table towards the back of the small dining room.

“Water?” the woman asks, hair the same shade of red as my own, piled up in a bun on top of her head.

“Please.”

“Flat, sparkling, or tap?”

“Flat,” I answer and then watch as she walks away, dazed in my unfamiliar surroundings.

These people are clueless to the world I just left behind, to the people I destroyed, to the beast I am. They sit, chatting quietly, very different from the loud and boisterous American manners, and I settle in the hushed atmosphere, looking over the menu.

“Here you go,” the waitress says in her thick Scottish accent as she sets the carafe of water on the table after pouring a glass for me. “What can I get for you, lassie?”

Unsure of the menu choices, I tell her, “Something warm and savory.”