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He knows that I know, or at least suspects. The room feels airless suddenly, as if all oxygen has been sucked out by a vacuum.

He knows that I know.

And what do I know?

I was raped, and Draco was the one who did it.

I’m in love with him.

I’m in love with my rapist.

“Why should I be punished?” I ask, watching as he reaches over and snatches my dress from the chair.

“I’m not saying you should,” he answers, stepping behind me and pulling the dress down over my head. “I’m asking if you know something I don’t.”

Chapter 26

Draco

Igrip the steering wheel until my knuckles drain white, the damp chill of the morning seeping all the way through my flesh and into my bones. Beside me, Mercy stares out the passenger window, her reflection fractured by raindrops that race across the glass. Her cheeks glisten with tears she hasn’t bothered to wipe away. The space between us stretches wider than the few inches of center console.

I can feel her pulling away from me.

I can feel her hating me.

No.

No, this wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.

I have to fix this.

“Its getting cold,” I say.

Why did I say that?

Do I really have nothing better to say to her?

Mercy doesn’t respond. Her hands are clenched in her lap, fingers intertwined so tightly I can see the pressure points where flesh meets bone, turning her knuckles the same shade as mine.Her chestnut hair falls in damp strands around her face, no longer in the neat braid she typically wears to church.

I ease off the gas as we approach a red light. The car slows, and in the stillness, I hear her breathing—shallow, quick inhales followed by shuddering exhales. She’s trying not to cry, and she’s failing.

My gaze drifts to her face, and I just look at her.

Why did it have to be like this?

Why did she have to do this to me and make me like this?

Why did I have to break her to have her the way I wanted?

The light turns green. I press down on the accelerator gently, not wanting to disturb her—funny, really, considering what I’m planning. The car moves forward, tires hissing against wet pavement. Droplets of water streak across my side window, distorting the world outside into abstract smears of color and shape, like the ghosts of buildings that loom over me.

I let my right hand fall from the steering wheel, reaching slowly across the center console. When my fingers brush against hers, I feel her flinch, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she grabs my hand with surprising strength, her nails digging crescents into my skin. It’s like she’s clinging to me, desperately.

Will she do the same after I destroy her?

My thoughts stop, and I shake my head.

That’s the first time I’ve second guessed myself.