Echo (Black Lotus #2)(50)

And when I do, one touch is exchanged for another. My hand grows cold as my face warms under Declan’s touch, and I begin to sob uncontrollably at the switch.





“I’M SO SORRY,” she wails, but she isn’t looking at me. “I want to take it back so bad, Pike, but I can’t! I don’t know how.”

Did she just say Pike? What the f*ck is going on?

“Darling, look at me. Who’re you talking to?” I ask as I press the now blood-soaked towel on Elizabeth’s head, trying to clot the bleeding. But it’s as if she doesn’t even hear me when she continues to talk to nobody.

“Tell me how, Pike. How do I go back and fix this?”

“Elizabeth, look at me! Focus!” I yell at her, needing to get her to snap out of whatever hallucination she’s having.

“He doesn’t love me,” she goes on. “It hurts to look at him.”

Fuck, what’s going on with her? She’s scaring the shit out of me with her cryptic eyes and this arcane conversation.

“But what about you? I want you to stay. I want you back.”

“God dammit, look at me!” I yell again, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.

Slowly, she finally turns her head and raises her eyes to mine. My hands now cradle her face, and after a couple blinks, she crumples over and starts bawling—completely broken. I hold her as my heart pounds in turbulent beats, confused as shit.

The adrenaline in my system slowly wanes as I sit on the floor with her. Her blood is everywhere, and I still don’t have a clue as to what the hell happened in this room before I kicked down the door.

Her body suddenly jolts, hands cup her ears, and her face pinches as she releases a ghastly scream. Horror storms through me, and I grab her shoulders to pull her up.

Her eyes are clenched shut as she cries out, “It’s so loud! Make it stop!”

“Make what stop? Tell me what’s going on,” I urge.

She reaches her hand back behind her, and as I’m trying to get her to open her eyes and calm down, I’m horrified when I catch her clawing at her scalp. She writhes, hissing in an agonizing breath. Urgently, I scramble around her, grabbing her arms to restrain them behind her back. She struggles to get loose, but I tighten my hold when I see the grotesque scab that she’s dug her nails into and ripped off.

Fucking Christ, this girl is having a complete breakdown.

“Stop fighting me,” I demand harshly.

But she doesn’t stop as she cries out, “It’s so loud. Let go of me!”

“Breathe. Stop fighting me and just breathe.”

I then let go of her arms, but quickly pin them to her sides when I band my arms tightly around her chest, taking control over her. It’s harder for her to fight me and jerk around from this position, but she keeps trying. So, I hold her until she begins to tire, all the while, doing my best to keep an even tone as I continue my attempts to soothe her, repeating over and over, “It’s okay . . . You’re safe . . . Breathe.”

When her body weakens, losing the tension, and sinking back into me, I release my firm hold on her. She’s quiet and pulls in long, deep breaths. I don’t know what the f*ck is going on with her, but I do know she’s losing her shit. The fact that she’s hiding away here and inflicting these attacks on her body is beyond disturbing. One has to wonder if she’s suicidal. And the fact that I just caught her having a full conversation with someone that doesn’t even exist anymore is insane.

I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t leave her alone here. God only knows what she’ll attempt next. So, I stand and gather all the papers that are strewn on the floor, then scoop her up into my arms. Her blood is all over me and streaked down her face. Her body folds into me, and I get her the f*ck out of here.

“Is she okay? Where are you taking her?” Isla asks in worriment as I make my way to the front door.

“She’s fine. I’m taking her to my place.”

Walking out into the biting chill of the night, I put her in my SUV. She doesn’t speak; she’s completely absent. I strap the seatbelt around her and start heading to my house.

While I drive, I pull out my cell and make a call to a friend of mine whose wife is a doctor. I stress to my friend the urgency of the situation, and after he explains what’s going on to his wife, she agrees to meet me at the house.

Once we make it back to my place, I carry her in my arms upstairs to get her in the shower and cleaned up. She’s totally withdrawn as I begin to remove her clothing. When I have her stripped down, I’m appalled by what I see.

She’s covered in a vast array of bruises: blue, purple, green, yellow, brown. They’re all over her chest, stomach, and thighs—blotches of muted colors.

“Did you do this to yourself?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes downcast and doesn’t utter a word. “Look at me.”

But she doesn’t.

I duck my head to try and catch her eyes, but I get nothing but desolation. Turning on the water, I strip my clothes off as well and then help her into the shower. She stands, unmoving, as I wash her. The water turns red as it runs over our bodies, taking the blood down the drain.

I keep moving to distract myself, but after we’re both clean, everything slows. Standing under the hot water, I see a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s severed and lost and weak. She’s nothing like the woman I met in Chicago—Nina. And I begin to wonder how different these two people truly are.