Page 107

25

EMMA

Iawaken in the middle of the night with my heart thudding in my chest.

Something’s wrong.

I know it immediately.

Instinctively, I glance toward the door. I’m not surprised to see the shadow there. It’s always there at this time of the night. But something is different about it this time. Instead of being still like always, it’s moving.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I toss the sheets aside and head for the door.

I throw the door open and steel myself for whatever’s waiting on the other side.

It’s so much worse than anything I could have ever imagined.

“Oh my God.” I slap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

Mr. Sinclair is slumped againsthis bedroom door with his hand on the doorknob.His shirt is soaked with blood. I’ve never seen this much blood in my entire life. There are open gashes on his arms and chest—deep, bloody ones that look like they were inflicted by someone who was trying to kill him.

“Go back to sleep,” he barks, not even sparing me a glance.

“What happened?” I whisper.

“Just another Tuesday,” he answers, struggling with the doorknob again. His hands are so slick with blood that he can’t open the door.

“Who did this to you?” I ask, rushing forward to help him.

He freezes when my hand brushes against his. I open the door.He rises slowly, towering over me—looking darker and colder than I’ve ever seen him.

“Go back inside your room, Miss Turner,” he says.

“Why, so you can bleed to death in a few hours?” I say. “You need medical assistance.”

“What Ineedis for you to leave me alone,” he says through gritted teeth.

He tries to appear menacing, but his eyes are losing focus.I glance down the corridor, looking at the trail of blood he left behind. He’s lost too much blood already.

“I can’t leave you alone when you’re in this state,” I say. “You need me.”

“I don’t need anyone,” he hisses. “Least of all you.”

I wonder if he’s intoxicated. Maybe he got into a bar fight that got violent. It doesn’t sound like him, but maybe I don’t knowhim as well as I think I do.

“I’m calling for help,” I say, turning away from him to get my cell phone.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he says.

His meaty palm wraps around my bicep, stopping me in my tracks. A pulse of pure need hits me in the center of my belly. Everything inside me contracts, seeking something unknown to me.

When I meet his eyes, I find him looking absolutely horrified.

He’s staring at the spot where he left a bloodstain on my white nightgown. His hold on me tightens, like I’m his anchor in the middle of a raging storm.

I swallow. “Mr. Sinclair?”

“You can’t call anyone,” he says. His eyes look haunted. I wonder if he’s in some kind of trouble.