Page 156 of Brutal Vows

THIRTY-SIX

REY

We eat. And by that, I mean Quinn feeds me small portions of carefully cut-up food, making sure to include all the veggies he can coax into my mouth as he drones on and on about the nutritional needs of infants.

After supper and the first of what I fear will be many forthcoming lectures about eating for two, he takes us into the shower, washes us down with the enthusiasm of a Labrador on its first outing at the doggie park, then heads right back to bed with me in his arms.

When he’s lying on top of me, searing my retinas with the brightness of his jubilant smile, I decide it’s time to make an adjustment to the situation.

“Pardon me for interrupting your gloat-a-thon, but has it occurred to you that I might need a rest?”

He draws his brows together. “Rest?”

“Let me put it to you this way: if I inserted an object the size of a bowling pin into your behind, do you suppose you could goright back to business as usual afterward? Would you be riding around the moors of Ireland on horseback, leaping over streams and galloping around full-speed while your poor, raw bottom took the brunt of all that jostling in the saddle?”

He looks appalled. “I knew I was hurting you!” Then, after a beat: “A bowling pin?”

When his grin returns, I give up. I close my eyes and sigh heavily.

“All right, lass,” he says, his voice warm, his mouth close to my ear. “We’ll have a rest. We’ll get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it, because growing babies requires a lot of energy.”

“Will you stop talking before I throw myself out the window, please?”

He rolls over, drags me on top of him, and hides his face in my neck as he laughs.

I must be more exhausted than I realize, because I fall asleep on top of him almost immediately.

The dream begins with fire.

All over me, all around me, even underneath my skin. I’m being burned alive from the inside out, and there’s no escaping it.

Except it’s not really fire. It only feels like fire.

Because that’s exactly what being repeatedly lashed with a leather whip is like.

I’m naked, screaming, crawling away over a cold marble floor on my hands and knees, sobbing and pleading for mercy. My tormentor gives me none. Following closely behind as I scramble for safety, he cracks the whip over and over, separating my flesh. Blood splatters the marble. It’s warm and slippery under the palms of my hands.

A vicious kick to the ribs sends me tumbling sideways. I lieon the cold hard floor on my back with my arms out, panting, desperately beggingno no no noas he looms over me, a tall figure with a shadowed face and an arm raised to strike.

As it falls, the whip parts the air with a vicious hiss like a thousand snakes descending with their sharp fangs bared, prepared to bite.

I scream at the top of my lungs, knowing no one will hear me.

“Reyna! Wake up, baby! Wake up!”

Quinn is shouting at me. Holding me in his arms and shouting.

I’m blinded for a moment, seeing nothing but blackness and hearing only my pounding heartbeat and that terrible hiss that always came right before the pain exploded over me.

When I inhale a sharp breath, I come back to myself slowly. Inch by inch, the darkness withdraws. The warmth of the room and Quinn’s arms seep in, soothing me.

I’m safe. In a hotel room in Boston, not at home in New York with Enzo.

Enzo is dead.

He can never hurt me again.

Except he can, because that sick son of a bitch lives on in my memory.