Page 20 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

ABIGAIL

T he studio is the only place in the manor where Dane leaves me alone. Over the last three weeks, it’s become my personal haven.

Otherwise, he’s a constant presence—he cooks every meal for me, cleans up after us, and reads to me for hours.

We’ve moved on from Addie LaRue to one of my favorite fantasy romance trilogies.

He doesn’t seem to mind the romantic content, and the steamy scenes read aloud in his deep voice makes something flutter between my legs despite my best efforts.

He hasn’t tried to touch me more than absolutely necessary in that time, and he’s slept on the tiny chaise every night. He says he doesn’t want to disturb my sleep, but sometimes I wonder if he has other reasons for giving me space.

My plan from the very beginning was to make him understand that I will never love him again. Perhaps my escape attempt—and the desperate risk I took—has given him some perspective. It might actually be sinking in that I don’t feel anything for him but loathing and resentment.

I can see that it bothers him.

Good.

He deserves to feel disturbed for what he’s done to me.

I’m not delusional enough to think he experiences guilt, but he does seem uncomfortable and off-balance around me in a way I never would’ve expected.

I’ve spent long days in the studio working through my physical pain so that I can spend time at my easel.

Dr. Graham approves of my efforts to return to gentle daily activities as part of my recovery, even if he does appear genuinely bothered by my winces at sudden movements. A few times, he’s reached for me during particularly intense spikes of pain, but he always withdraws when I flinch.

Today, I’m putting the finishing touches on the painting I’ve struggled to express on my canvas. The agony of it was far deeper than the ache in my ribs when I lifted my arm or shifted my weight too quickly.

I set my brush down and sit back, taking in my work. It hasn’t been a cathartic project; it’s been an act of anguish.

But it’s finished. I can show it to Dane now.

I cross the parquet floor and open the door to the portrait-lined corridor.

“Dane?” I call out.

Heavy footfalls immediately rush toward me. He appears out of his bedroom and storms down the corridor. His dark brows are drawn together, and his eyes are almost feverish with worry.

“What’s wrong?”

I take a step back from his potent aura.

I don’t understand him when he’s like this, and it scares me.

I can’t predict his actions when he shows a semblance of human emotion.

Will he tackle me to the floor again and force himself on me in a moment of twisted passion?

Or will he snap back to his cold, clinical default state? Both are equally terrifying.

I swallow hard, and he halts as though he’s hit a brick wall, stopping several feet away from me. His beautiful eyes rake over my body, assessing me for signs of injury. Then his shoulders slump slightly.

“You’re all right.”

“I have something to show you,” I say instead of responding.

I’m not all right. My heart throbs as though it’s as battered and bruised as my body after the crash. The painstaking work of finishing my painting has left me wrung-out and emotionally exhausted, but I have to see this through.

I take another step back, but this time, I’m welcoming him to enter the studio. The moment he sets eyes on my art, he freezes again.

“Abigail…” He breathes my name. “What is this?”

“It’s me,” I answer quietly.

On the canvas, I’ve captured all of my pain and impotent rage, my fear and desperation.

My face is contorted in an anguished scream, and blood drips from my split lips.

My face is bruised almost beyond recognition, and my fingers are knotted in my hair, tearing at the delicate strands.

More bruises encircle my throat—the violent marks from Dane’s fingers imprinted on my pale skin.

“Why?” he asks, his gaze transfixed on the disturbing image like it’s a car crash he can’t look away from.

“This is what you did to me.” It’s meant to be a flat statement of fact, but the lump in my throat makes the words strained.

“No,” he refuses. “You’re getting better. You’re healing. This didn’t happen in the wreck.”

“It’s how I feel inside.” Tears burn my cheeks. I blink rapidly, but I can’t stop the steady stream as my tumultuous emotions leak out of me.

He shakes his head sharply, a willful rejection of the truth. “I know men have hurt you,” he growls. “I know you’ve felt shame and self-loathing. I never want you to think of yourself this way.”

“No, Dane. This is what you did to me.”

He rounds on me, and I can’t help cringing away. His entire body coils tight, and I’m not sure if he’s preparing to launch himself at me or if he’s wresting with his own shadows of emotion. The only ones he’s capable of experiencing.

“I would never hurt you,” he vows. “Never.”

“You have hurt me more deeply than anyone in my life. Worse than Tom when he raped me. Worse than my family with their years of psychological and emotional abuse. You made me believe I loved you, but it was all a manipulation to get me into your bed. It was all a sick game to you.” I dash the tears from my cheeks so I can look him squarely in the eye.

“You broke my heart, Dane. You broke me. ”

His skin is unusually pale, and he looks like he might vomit. “I wouldn’t. I haven’t.”

“Look at me.” I gesture at the painting. “Look at what you’ve done to me, and tell me you would never hurt me. Tell me you truly believe that you haven’t shattered me. Lie to us both if you want, but I’m done being gaslighted by you.”

He stares at the painting again and shakes his head. Then he stares some more. The silence is thick between us, and I let him stew in it.

I’d expected to feel vindication in this moment, but all I feel is soul-deep grief.

Grief for what I thought we could be together, and for the devastating loss of love when I learned the truth about Dane.

“I wanted to die,” he rasps.

“What?” I ask faintly.

He finally turns to face me, and his eyes are dark with agony. “When you crashed the Jeep, I thought…” He swallows hard. “All that blood. You weren’t moving. You didn’t answer me when I said your name.”

His jaw firms, and he fixes me with a fiery stare that’s so intense I can hardly bear to maintain eye contact.

“If you had died, I would’ve opened my veins and laid down right next to you. I realized that truth in the moment I thought I’d lost you.”

Shock punches me when he drops to his knees and takes my chilled hands in both of his. My fingers are trembling, but not from fear.

“I told you I can’t live without you. I mean it in the truest sense of the words. You’ve made me feel for the first time in my life. I wasn’t living before I met you. My life has no meaning without you in it.”

My lips are parted on panting breaths, as though I’ve been sprinting for miles rather than standing frozen in the beautiful studio that he made for me.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I can see that now.

I will spend every day of the rest of my life making it up to you.

Name anything you want, and I’ll give it to you.

I’ll give you the world, Abigail. I would give you the blood from my veins.

I would give you my heart, but I can’t promise you something I don’t have.

You want the organ that keeps me alive? I’ll cut it out of my chest for you. Because without you, I don’t need it.”

He rubs his thumbs over my chilled knuckles.

“I’m scaring you. I don’t want to, but I won’t lie to you.

I’m obsessive and cruel and every bit as selfish as I’ve ever said.

I won’t ask you to forgive me. I can at least spare you that selfish request.” He lifts my hands and kisses my palms with reverence.

“I’ll be better for you, Abigail. I will never be worthy of you, but I’ll be better. I swear.”

His pain pierces my heart like a knife, twisting and shredding. Even after everything he’s done to me, bearing witness to his anguish is my own form of agony.

I want him to be the man I fell in love with so badly.

And this version of Dane who’s on his knees before me looks so much like him.

I know deep in my bones that this isn’t a trick. It’s not another manipulation.

He said he would die without me, and I believe him.

I don’t know how to process it.

I hate him for what he’s done to me, but how can I still feel yearning for the man who assaulted me?

The depth of his obsession is terrifying. His confession should only make me more wary of him, but my tattered heart tugs toward his in an echo of the love I used to feel.

“I don’t know what to say,” I finally admit on a shaky whisper.

He grasps my hands closer to his chest. “You don’t have to say anything. You don’t owe me anything. I’m the one who should speak now. And I want to say I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I hurt you like this. Never again. I swear.”

I’m stunned at his apology. It seems impossible, surreal, that Dane is on his knees telling me he’s sorry. I didn’t think he was capable of remorse.

But he’s still not promising to let me go if that’s what I ask of him. He said he won’t live without me. That means I have no hope of escape.

My heart breaks all over again.

I’m still trapped with the madman who wears my love’s face. And his devotion to me is more fanatical than I ever could’ve imagined.

He’ll keep me in this gilded cage forever, and I fear that one day, I may no longer want to fly away.

He reaches up and brushes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs.

“I don’t want to make you cry.”

Now I’m the one sinking to my knees. They’re too shaky to support me. My chest convulses on a harsh sob.

I want him, and I hate myself for it. No one has ever cared about me the way Dane does. It’s tempting and terrifying in equal measure.

His arms close around me, strong enough to support me but gentle with my healing body. True to his word, he’s not causing me an ounce of physical pain.

My tormented soul is another matter entirely.

“I’ve got you,” he promises.

“I know.” I choke on another sob. “I know.”