Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(74)

Emotion pours from me like blood, black blood spurting from a mortal wound in some unfathomable place. The trees that take shape are dark and pointed, their branches more like thorns than foliage, and the sun never appears. It’s hidden by thick, rolling clouds that speak only of warning, warning of unpleasantness to come. And the water . . . the water looks nothing like what’s in front of me. The water on my canvas is turbulent, churning, its surface anything but placid and sweet.

I lash at the canvas with my brush, unaware of the tears streaming down my face until another chill seems to freeze them on my cheeks.

I gasp this time, dropping my brush and whirling around like someone tapped me on the shoulder. I look about, three hundred and sixty degrees, but don’t see even one sign of another person.

Eyes still watering and chest now heaving, I reach for my brush, carefully examining this odd sensation that has come over me for the second time. What am I feeling? Anger? Pain? Loneliness? Desperation?

Yes. To all of them. But why? Why would I get such a sudden burst of sensation out of nowhere? I have experienced most of these feelings practically every day since I left America, but never like this. Never all at once and so poignantly that it’s physically startling.

When I turn back toward my painting, I see the unrest of my soul. It’s coloring everything around me, stealing beauty from the beautiful. I know I shouldn’t let this happen, shouldn’t let this go on. But I just don’t know how to stop it. I’m not sure I even can.

—

I wake hours later, at home and feeling exhausted. It’s still dark outside, well before dawn. I consider just lying in bed, wallowing in my misery, although I know sleep won’t find me again.

Frustrated, I throw back the covers and make my way to the en suite bathroom just off the master. I cut on the faucet and run fairly hot water into the tub, adding just enough bubble bath to give me a nice thick, scented foam. I stretch my arms up over my head, noting the sting of the muscles in my neck from painting for so long yesterday. So long and so angrily. Maybe a hot bath and some soothing aromas are just what I need.

I light three candles and then switch off the overhead light. After stripping off my nightclothes, I step into the tub, hissing when the nearly scalding water hits my cold feet. It takes a few seconds of adjusting before I can lower all the way down, resting my legs along the still-cool ceramic of the old claw-foot. But when my skin stops complaining, I relax my head back against the little pillow and let the steam carry every troubling thought up into the hazy air.

I’m drifting in that place between fully awake and half asleep when I hear a muted thump. It’s so soft, I might never have heard it if I weren’t awake and quiet in the middle of the night. My eyes fly open as the fog clears from my muddled brain and I strain to listen, not certain my overactive imagination didn’t manufacture the sound.

I hear the telltale creak as weight eases onto the platform at the top of the stairs. There’s no place to step that the boards won’t groan. It’s like a hidden alarm. And I’m alarmed. Every muscle in my body clenches. I gasp quietly, holding my breath as I debate the wisdom of trying to get up and alerting someone to my presence, or keeping quiet and hoping the intruder doesn’t come into the bathroom.

My time quickly runs out as the muffled fall of nearly silent footsteps rustle on the carpet, drawing closer to the bathroom door. The hard, rapid thud of my heart is almost painful in its intensity, but still I remain calm and silent. My eyes search the immediate vicinity for a weapon of any kind. When they fall on the wooden box that I keep my jewelry in, I run through a quick plan on how I’ll jump up, grab it, bash my interloper in the head and then bolt down the stairs to the kitchen. Where the knives are.

Provided that I could even escape him in this manner. I think of trying to get the better of Jasper. In any situation. I know I couldn’t. Few, if any, probably could. He’s the best for a reason. I can only hope that whoever is breaking into my home is a long way from being as good as Jasper.

I listen closely for the approach of my creeper. The only sound I hear is the delicate crackling of the bubbles bursting all around me. I’m staring at the doorway, my heart in my throat, when a dark figure suddenly appears.

I scream, shooting to my feet and reaching for the box, slinging it with all my might at the head looming in the shadows. I leap from the tub, my wet foot slipping on the tile and sending me lurching forward. Luckily, my attacker wasn’t expecting that and I’m able to lunge past him and out the bathroom door.

I’m barely aware of the cool air hitting my skin as I tear through the bedroom. I’m nearly to the door when steely fingers grip my arms, jerk me to a stop and lift me off my feet to throw me onto the bed. A heavy body falls on top of me, pinning me down.

“No reason I can’t have a little taste before I slit your beautiful throat,” a voice growls in my ear. I open my mouth to scream just as a big hand that smells like grease and smoke clamps down over my lips. “But if you’re determined to scream, I can always cut your throat first. Makes no difference to me.”

I stare at the ceiling, at the silvery moonlight that pours in through the part in my curtain as I digest his words. My mind races for options, any options, yet it finds none. If I scream or fight, he’ll probably kill me. But he’s going to kill me regardless and I’d rather be dead when any man besides Jasper touches me. In fact, I think I’d rather be dead than live this miserable life without him anyway. Does it matter who does it or when?