The bed felt like a coffin.
No matter how I shifted, no matter how many times I buried my face in the silk pillows, I couldn’t escape the sounds echoing in my skull—the crack of Damon’s fist against Lucas’s flesh, the choked gasp of breath, the dull thud of bone against bone. Every blow replayed itself in perfect, merciless clarity.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Behind my eyelids, I saw Damon’s hand gripping Lucas’s throat, saw the dark fire in his eyes, saw the blood blooming like a flower across Lucas’s mouth. And worst of all, I saw myself, frozen and trembling, begging the devil for mercy.
A sob clawed up my throat. I smothered it with the pillow, pressing hard until the silk dampened with my tears.
God, I hated myself.
Not just for crying. Not just for bre
