Sin With Me

35

A lone finger, torn from the root. A foot, still clad in a red high-heeled shoe. A bloody hand, outstretched to nothing, attached to nothing, all alone.

I hear screaming. Hoarse, frantic screaming. In the distance, sirens wail. Then a hand wraps around my wrist.

Someone is pulling on my wrist.

It hurts. God how it hurts. The sirens grow closer. The grip on my wrist grows tighter. My body jerks forward as the hand pulls hard. I groan. The pain is excruciating.

“You have to get out! I have to get you out! You need to release your belt buckle now!”

A man is frantically screaming at me. No—a boy. A dark-haired boy, his head stuck inside the shattered window, his eyes huge and terrified, his features obscured by blood gushing from a nasty gash on his forehead.

I was in a car crash. We were driving . . . my parents were driving . . .

An atomic blast of horror hits me the same time a loud pop like an explosion erupts nearby my head.

The hand. The foot. My parents.

My parents!

Blistering hot, a ball of fire explodes around me.

I open my mouth and scream.

BRODY

The sound is one I’ve never heard before. It’s a piercing, primal wail of pure anguish that sends a chill like death straight down to my bones.

My heart thundering, I jerk upright in bed. For a moment I’m disoriented. Bright sunlight streams through my bedroom windows. Birds chirp in the hibiscus bush outside. It’s early Sunday morning, and everything is quiet and still.

Except that scream. It comes again, louder and even more terrifying than before.

I leap from bed and almost fall when my legs tangle in the covers. Stumbling over the hardwood floor to the door, I crack my knee against the dresser. I curse and hop on one foot until I get my balance back, and then I tear through the house toward the sound of that awful scream.

It’s coming from the room where Grace is sleeping.

My heart takes off like a rocket. My legs carry me toward her faster than they’ve ever moved before.

Without slowing, I slam into the door. It crashes open and hits the wall with a thunderous bang.

On the bed is Grace, thrashing in the covers, screaming bloody murder to wake the dead.

“Grace!” Terrified, I fall onto her. I grab her wrists, hold them down against the pillow above her head. She fights me, howling like a banshee, her hair flying everywhere, her body bucking beneath me. “Grace! Wake up! Wake up! For God’s sake wake up!”

I shout the last part into her face. She falls still. For a moment there’s nothing, just the sound of my harsh breathing and the tremors of her body shaking the bed. Then she opens her eyes and looks up at me through the wild mess of her hair.

Her gaze is full of horror and darkness.

I say her name. She slowly blinks. For an awful, bottomless moment, I think she doesn’t have any idea who I am.

Then she whispers, “B-Brody?”

The relief that washes over me is so intense I’m momentarily speechless. I nod, trying not to let my panic show on my face. “You were dreaming. You had a bad dream.”

Her face is ashen. “I . . . the . . . blood . . . the blood was everywhere . . . and the fire . . . and the . . . parts . . .”

Hearing her describe her dream makes the tiny hairs on my body stand on end. My sense of déjà vu is crushing, as is my self-loathing.

I have to swallow several times before I can talk again.

“You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing can hurt you,” I vow. I release her wrists and drag her against me. She’s trembling so violently it shakes us both. The back of her dress is damp with sweat. Burrowing against me, she hides her face in my chest.

“Oh God. Oh God.”

Her voice is choked, a half whisper.

“I’m here,” I murmur, smoothing her hair and rocking her. I’ll always be here, I don’t say. I swear on my worthless life I’ll always do everything I can to make you feel safe.

After a while her trembling slows, and then stops. She lifts her head and looks at me. Damp strands of hair cling to her cheeks. Her eyes are huge, so dark gray they’re almost black.

“Usually I don’t give a woman nightmares until after she’s slept with me,” I say with a straight face.

She moistens her lips, swallows. The faintest of smiles curves her mouth. “Not during?”

I’m relieved to see a glimmer of humor. This is good. “I’ll have you know I’m told those thirty seconds are incredible. It’s everything else about me that sucks.”

Now her smile really comes on. She sits up straighter and pushes her hair off her face. “Thirty seconds, huh? You stud.”

Adopting a smug expression, I puff out my chest. “Oh yeah. I’m so studly I probably just got you pregnant from my hug. With twins.”

She chuckles. It’s a little shaky, but she’s definitely feeling better than she was just moments ago, which oddly makes me want to do a Tarzan-style chest thump.

“Yes, I think I can feel my uterus throwing a fertilization party. You’re very talented, Mr. Scott.”

“You know what it does to me when you call me Mr. Scott,” I tease, lowering my head and looking at her pointedly from beneath my brows. “The sexy librarian fantasy, remember?”

She laughs. The sound of it unspools something tight in my chest.

“How could I forget?” She glances around the room and muses, “Now if only I could find a ruler . . .”

Then we’re smiling at each other. Her eyes have brightened, and her face is no longer such a deathly shade of white.