“Death and the Maiden,” said a deep, familiar voice. “It has the same effect on me.”
Don Rockwell. Standing at the end of the hall, framed by the walls like he was yet another painting, a second dark, beautiful Death.
He pulled me like a magnet, even after all this time.
My body went to war. My heart raced, but my limbs turned to stone. All I could do was stand there, drinking him in. He looked exactly like I remembered. Tall and broad-shouldered, filling every inch of his tuxedo. He radiated authority, like he always had. I felt his dark eyes travel over my body, and the weight of his gaze created a visceral sensation, like the brush of a fingertip.
I’d never really imagined…couldn’t actually believe—
You found me, the dark voice whispered. You’re home.
“Shay,” he said thickly. My name on his lips was an intimacy, shortening the space between us. “You came back.”
His gaze was locked on me, and it was intoxicating. My mouth went dry. Move, I urged myself, but I was rooted.
He strode toward me, each step luxuriously slow. Scream, I told myself. Run.
He stopped in front of me, wonder on his face. “How is it possible you’re even more beautiful? You’re like a fairy tale come to life.”
I opened my mouth, but all I could do was take him in. The face I’d visited in countless dreams, tracing with my thumb one minute, recoiling from the next. The voice that could reach inside me, stirring, then paralyzing.
He shook his head. “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t care. I only care that you’re back.”
He cupped my face in his large, warm hand and gave me a blinding smile. The sheer magnetism of him.
“I knew you’d come back,” he murmured, drawing closer. “Knew you were still my girl.”
His girl. I remembered… Of course I did. The girl who lived for him to touch her, push her against the wall, bend her over his bed, until she staggered with the pleasure of rock bottom. With him I’d practiced throwing myself away. Experimented with releasing hold of the ego I’d once deemed so precious, guarded so protectively. It had been a kind of freedom—twisted, but true.
Don stroked his thumbs over my cheekbones, and I felt it again: the tempting pull of self-annihilation.
I shook my head, told myself to resist, but maybe that was part of the attraction. Because when Don drew my mouth to his, when he kissed me, I let him in. His tongue brushed my lips, and I was inside my body and outside it, two people.
“You taste like home,” he whispered. “Just like I remember.”
Home—that’s what I’d thought the moment I saw him. The same word from his mouth jarred me. Had it been my own thought, or was it one he’d given me years ago, repeated until I couldn’t tell the difference? Whose dark voice was in my head—the one that whispered things that made me feel irredeemable—was it mine, or his?
No, I hadn’t escaped Don. Not when I carried him inside me everywhere I went.
He leaned in to kiss me again, but I turned my head.
“Shay.” His voice was admonishing. “It’s me.”
“And who is that?” I asked. “Nico Stagiritis? The Philosopher? The man behind the governor?”
His eyes widened. Surprised by what I was capable of.
“I didn’t come here for you,” I said. “I came for your daughters.”
Don’s face darkened, the transformation still uncanny. An instinctive fear crawled through me, lifting the hairs on my arms. “What do you know?” he asked.
I took a step back. “You can’t touch me. If you do, the whole world—”