“Then sort it through with a therapist.” Delara put her hand on her arm. “Listen, I like you and I want to help. If you don’t want to talk about it, no one can force you, but at least walk the plank. Dive off and see if you can swim. If you can’t—” she shrugged, “—well I’m a great swimmer, so I’ll be there for you.”
“There is so much more.” And she wasn’t ready to tell anyone, let alone a stranger.
“All the more reason. Waleron will pay her, so don’t even think about using the excuse of money. He has so much money he doesn’t know what to do with it.” Delara passed her a glass of water. “I get that you don’t want to. I run from everything, but I’m not sick, Rayne. I’m not dying. You are. Listen, I’ll make you a deal. You go see her twice, and I promise I’ll talk to Waleron and tell him you’ve decided you’re not ready.”
Did she have a choice? Technically yes, but the Senses had already given her more than she could’ve asked for. It would hurt. Emotionally for certain, but she was already hurting emotionally. Besides, today had scared her. What if she had been alone? The fear of passing out on the road was worse than the fear of seeing a therapist a couple times.
She found herself nodding and, at that moment, she realized Kilter was right. Even though she couldn’t see it, she knew she was going to die.
****
Days and nights wove into one another as, never knowing how much time had passed, he hung like a lamb to slaughter. His telepathy was useless. He’d failed to reach anyone for what he guessed was at least a week. A steel band now covered his eyes. He’d fought them when they replaced the steel bucket with the band, and got a knife across his face from ear to brow. Without sight he lived in complete darkness. He could hear rats scurrying across the dirt floor beneath his feet, occasionally when he dozed off they’d nibble on his calves.
His throat was raw from shouting curses at his brother.
Where were Tye and the others? Were they searching for him?
It was hard to think in this damp hellhole. His calm logical mind continued to play the devil’s advocate—uncertainty and confusion as to why his brother had turned on his own kin. The wheels kept spinning over and over in his mind about what he’d done to push Ulrich this far.
He knew he’d die in this place. He wanted to die.
Gemma’s screams echoing outside his door was a constant reminder that he still lived. Day after day, he suffered, struggling against his bonds, ripping his flesh open until blood pooled on the dirt floor where rats relished in a feeding frenzy. Cursing his brother. Begging him to let Gemma go.
But it was when her screams had stopped that the ultimate torture had begun. Was she was gone? Had he failed to protect her?
He hung limp against the manacles, head lowered, ignoring the rats gnawing on his ankles. He had nothing left . Was nothing.
With everything he was, he failed her.
That was when he died inside.
Chapter 10
“How much do you weigh, Rayne?”
“I don’t know,” Rayne replied, shifting uneasily in her seat. She didn’t want to talk about her weight. Why had she agreed to see this woman? Because you need help, she reminded herself, as she’d done every single second on the way here. Delara had insisted on accompanying her and it was a relief to know that if she crumpled into a mess of anxiety in the middle of the sidewalk, at least Delara could pick up the broken pieces.
“Rayne, I know you want to get up and walk out of here.” Understatement. “You don’t know me and this is very personal subject to talk about. That’s normal. But I want you to know that I care what happens to you.” She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze intent. “If you continue to lose weight, you will die.” She softened her voice. “Do you want to die, Rayne?”
Good question. Yeah, sometimes she did. Why continue living when no one cared whether she disappeared or not? She had nothing. No reason to go on. But then there was a small part of her that was fighting to survive and come out of the black void and live, breathe, experience joy.
“In order for me to help you, I need you to be honest with me. I don’t judge, Rayne. I am here to be that voice that is hidden inside you. It won’t be easy. This will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Suffering from anorexia is a battle. But you can defeat it.”
Yeah, right. Why did this woman care anyway? She didn’t know her. She didn’t know what she’d been through. She didn’t know anything about her problems.
But she was tired. Tired and scared of the panic attacks. Tired of feeling dizzy. Tired of worrying whether or not she’d pass out. Just walking down the street today had been a chore. Voices in her head telling her that the people were laughing at her, that she was fat and a failure.
“It will be a battle between your anorexic self and your healthy self,” Rebecca continued. “Both parts will war against one another continuously. You will fight for your anorexic self, that part of you that you have grown to know and understand.”
“I’m not anorexic,” Rayne shot back. She put her hand on her stomach, praying that it was still flat, hoping that just talking about weight hadn’t gained her two pounds. The thought of extra weight sent a tremor through her body. How could she trust someone who was spilling lies to her? It was lies, wasn’t it? She wasn’t anorexic. Couldn’t Rebecca see what she saw looking at in the mirror everyday? But an inner voice struggled to emerge, telling her that living in this entrapment of her own self-destruction was detrimental. That maybe Rebecca was right and she would die.
She met Rebecca’s hazel eyes and then flickered away. Okay, she looked concerned, like she really did care. Was that possible? She ventured another glance and noticed the fullness of her lips and the lazy, plain brown curls that surrounded her oval face. It softened her narrow nose and severe eyebrows. Her guess was that she was around thirty-nine, maybe a little younger. Wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a beige long-sleeved blouse made Rayne relax somewhat. Rebecca was not what she’d expected as a therapist, casual with a warm smile, but direct as a missile. Like Kilter, she thought.
“I’ll be straightforward here, Rayne. You will die. Your heart will give out if you keep losing weight. I’ve seen it happen. If you suffer from panic attacks—which I believe you do—they’ll worsen. Your hair will begin to fall out and then your body will stop functioning. Think about it, Rayne. Because if there is an ounce of survival left inside of you, I want you to grab hold of it before it slips away.”
It was slipping away and yet at times she wanted to live. She’d finally escaped Anton and had her freedom. That was why she was here—to try. Despite believing that if she gained weight she’d lose control, a logical part of her knew Rebecca was right. She felt it in her body, the dizziness, the memory loss and the constant panic. Her body was screaming for food and yet every time she put food in her mouth she felt as if she’d blow up like a balloon—failing. It was one thing she was good at and had complete control over.
“Ninety-four pounds,” Rayne said.
“Thank-you, Rayne. I know that’s hard to say out loud, and it’s even harder to trust a stranger. But I want you to remember that whatever is said in here is completely confidential. Between you and I. Never do I break that trust.”
Rayne wondered whether Rebecca would break it if she knew about the Senses, CWOs and vampires who were sharing this world.
Rebecca handed her a journal. “I want you to write in this every day. Feelings, what you did that day, anger, anything you want.” She passed her another booklet. “This one is for our work in here. We will do meal plans, reconstructions using past experiences. We’ll do some imaging, drawing funny stick people. Also, a big part will be role-playing, which is kind of like acting. We need to find that healthy voice.”
It sounded like crap to her, but she was here and she’d promised Delara and herself that she’d at least listen to what Rebecca was offering. She didn’t like the meal planning idea; after all, she wasn’t a child to have to write down everything sh
e put in her mouth. Nor did she want to see point blank what she was consuming everyday. The role-playing was a big time no way; acting in front of a stranger was a terrifying idea. Just thinking about it made her palms sweat.
“This is intense therapy. You will meet me five days a week for two hours. You won’t want to come, you’ll fight me every step of the way until you begin to get healthy again. But I promise you this—I will always be there for you. You can call me day or night and I will be there.”
Could she do this? Did she want to? Finding the strength to face the demons was harder than living in the shadows. What if she failed at this too? Could she survive that?
“First we will find you a safe place,” Rebecca continued. “A place so when you’re scared, panicked or just need to get away, you can touch a certain part of your body, like your wrist, and feel safe.”
Like that could work.
Rebecca passed her a basket of crayons. “Draw a picture. Something that reminds you of peace and safety. It can be anywhere you want, but without other people and judgments. Just someplace you can be alone and feel safe from everything.”
Rayne thought it was silly at first, drawing a picture with crayons, but she took the basket and opened her journal. As she began to draw, a feeling of relief came over her, as if she was immersed in the image that automatically came to mind: a large willow tree with drooping branches that nearly touched the lush, spongy grass. She paused, hand hesitating over the piece of paper and then she saw it, an old wooden swing with yellow ropes tied to a branch overhead. This was where she felt safe, sitting on a swing with the wind in her hair. She was about to draw a bright sun up in the corner, but then decided she’d prefer to have the rain lightly caressing her skin. Purple and yellow flowers surrounded her like a wall of beauty. This was a place where no one could find her. Not even a Senses.
Her eyes filled with tears, as she thought of the one man she did want to find her, but had chosen to stay away.
****
Delara knew the instant he arrived. His enigmatic presence was like a warm wind shifting over her skin the moment he was within a hundred feet of her. It had always been this way, except this time she snuffed out the butterflies rising in her abdomen by pinching her thigh as hard as she could.
She took a deep breath before meeting his stark blue eyes. Pure ice.
He stood with an all-encompassing energy that suffocated the air in the small kitchen. “Problem?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from quivering.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on her as he approached with long even strides. God, did he ever look afraid? Did he ever feel anything? No, he’d made certain of that. She bent down to continue emptying the dishwasher when he grabbed her hand.
Heat tore through her body like a lightening bolt. No matter what she did, there was no denying the chemistry between them. Except, he did deny it. It was nothing to him. As if their past failed to exist.
“Why are you here Pez?” she asked. Shit, her voice raised an octave.
“We need to talk,” Waleron said.
“If this is about us . . . we’ve talked. Nothing’s left to say,” Delara slipped her hand from his grasp and took a step back. The tattoo on his neck shimmered a bold red and then faded back to an intense black.
Waleron’s stone cold expression flashed a grimace for a split second and then returned to impassive. “You slept with a vamp and a Wraith. I was in the realm, Edan is still raving mad.”
What did he want to hear? He knew the truth. Edan had been her escape, her protector from her own emotions. He taught her to stop running from anger and stand up to it. Liam . . . well, he was the danger aspect, off limits and a good way to make Waleron hate her more.
Okay, she’d used Edan to get into council and speak on Balen’s behalf—he was being sentenced to Rest for a bullshit reason—and it had been a risk, but it worked. Yeah, she’d used her feminine wiles to her advantage, just like Waleron had with that wretched witch Trinity. “Yeah, so what. You said it wasn’t your concern.”
“Never. Ever. Do anything so foolish again.” Waleron’s voice cut into her like the lash of a crocodile’s tail.
“Oh, but its okay for you to do it,” Delara retorted. Of course it was. According to rumors, Waleron slept with plenty of woman and frequented the club Wicked. His dangerous bad-boy look had them crawling all over themselves to get to him. She had to hand it to him; at least he had never flaunted them. No, Waleron was adamant about his privacy. Even she had no idea where he stayed.
“Edan is a Wraith, for Christ’s sake. He is livid.”
Yeah, the volatile Wraith was probably spitting fire for being used. The Godlike Wraiths were on their side, trying to maintain some sort of peace on earth. They were powerful as shit and lucky for her couldn’t live on earth. Unfortunately, they could bring you to their realm, which sucked when they were pissed.
“Have you ended it with Liam?”
“Not that it is any of your business—but yes. Satisfied? His new interest may not like sharing anyway. Guess she doesn’t realize that vamps rarely believe in monogamy.” She had spoken with Abby a few times at the club, a sweet girl. She was surprised the witch was even considering getting involved with Liam. She just hoped the little witch stayed clear of his blood.
“And you are fine with sharing?”
She shrugged. What did she care if Liam slept with others? It wasn’t as if she loved him, just used him like Edan. “Listen, I have shit to do.” She pushed past him and headed out of the kitchen to the gallery. Everything in her body screamed to stay close to him, yet her mind knew better. Escape while you can. The ice was already beginning to seep into her heart.
“Delara.” Waleron raised his voice, although far from a shout. He never had to, his presence alone made defying him impossible.
She closed her eyes and halted without turning around. She heard his footsteps come up behind her and froze. Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me.
His breath came first, a soft wind across the back of her bare neck and then his scent, deep and familiar that curled her toes into sweet torment. Let me go. Can’t you see how much you’re hurting me?
His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and fire burned in her belly. Every inch of her wanted to spin around and fall into his arms, taste his lips, feel his skin, trace every single tattoo on his body with her tongue.
Let me go. Hate me, so I can let you go.
Since the day they’d met, there had been fireworks between them, an undeniable chemistry that neither could extinguish. But for sixty-one years, she had thought he was dead. Years in which she was in emotional turmoil. Then at her weakest, she’d fallen into Tarek’s web. Self-punishment was a fucker, and she knew how to do it to herself in spades.
But Waleron had survived and came back. He saved her life only to kick her in the gut with his denial of loving her any longer. With his return, he’d destroyed her heart all over again.
Waleron couldn’t love. He was incapable of the emotion any longer. Something had happened within that Lilac’s grasp, and now he was a cold, emotionless shell.
Where was the man she met at the garden party so many years ago? The man who teased, laughed, and swept her off her feet? He was dead, he’d said. Dead and buried.
Waleron’s fingers swept across her skin as if the tip of a feather. His touch was the same as it was when they met.
And yes, he was the same. Somewhere inside him, that man existed and she loved him.
His fingers swept her shaggy locks away from the back of her neck then his lips descended. She closed her eyes as her body melted into the oblivion of bliss. One simple lingering kiss on her flesh and she was a pool of liquid. It hurt. It was crushing her fragmented, brittle insides.
She couldn’t stand to be near him and not have his whole heart.
She wanted to laugh. Heart? Waleron no longer had a heart.
He curled his hands into a handful of hair and tilted her head a
s he took her ear into the warmth haven of his mouth. One. Two. Three. Four . . . Delara remained still as she could, although her knees were threatening to give out and her skin was at its boiling point.
“Look at me,” Waleron demanded. He waited patiently while his breath sifted across her ear. “What more do you want, Delara? I’m giving all I can. You know I can never be with you for more than what I offer.”
What he wanted was to share their bodies, but not their hearts. Sex. Passionate, raw sex. And she knew why he was offering this—so she’d give up sleeping with other men. Another way for him to control her without giving an ounce of himself.
But sex with him was like jumping off the CN Tower in a freefall, the sweet caresses, the butterflies, the sweet sensations swirling through your body. But the inevitable had to happen—landing—bruised body and soul, heart ripped apart. Dying inside.
She couldn’t turn around and look at him. No way in hell. Not when he’d see the desire pulsating in her eyes along with the pain and the anguish at his words. It was as if he were slowly digging a knife into her heart inch by selfish inch, then slashing it apart.
She loved him. God, she loved this man. Or at least the man he used to be. The reminder was always close at hand, that crinkled piece of paper.
It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done—the hardest was way too over the top of painful to even think about—as she slipped from his grasp. Instantly, the coldness seeped into her veins. Can’t you feel what you’re doing to me every time we’re together? She laughed to herself. Yeah right.
She was pretty damn certain he’d let her walk away. The guy had pride the size of Russia. Chasing after a woman was not his thing. He wanted to satisfy their undeniable sexual chemistry whenever he wanted, and she wanted him to love her. Yeah, just so he could kick her out of bed in the morning.
“Delara.” His tone was a warning and she hesitated. No one walked away from Waleron. Did she have the nerve? At one time, she wouldn’t have, but she’d worked hard at smothering that habit into the ground.
STEP (The Senses) Page 11
