Page 19

Adele

I wake up with a scream, remnants of my vivid dream of being torn apart in a bomb blast all too real.

My ass feels numb. I must have dozed off, but now, the events of the night come rushing back like a tidal wave.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images flash relentlessly behind my eyelids: the fireball erupting into the sky, the twisted metal of what was once my car, and that single foot that should have been mine.

My chest constricts, and a choked sob escapes my throat, quickly followed by another. I clamp a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but it’s like the dam has broken again. The tears come in a torrent, hot and salty, wetting my chest and soaking into the neckline of my suddenly too-tight dress.

I drag myself to my feet, legs trembling, and stumble toward the ensuite bathroom. I grip the edge of the sink and force myself to look in the mirror.

My hair is a tangled mess. Mascara streaks down my cheeks in inky rivulets. My skin is pale, almost translucent, making the dark circles under my eyes stand out in stark relief. I look haunted, broken.

With shaking hands, I turn on the tap, letting the water run until steam fogs the mirror. I splash my face until the water scalds, but I welcome the pain.

When that stops working on the tearing ache in my chest, I lurch back into the bedroom, desperate for anything to numb the pain. My gaze lands on the crystal decanter on the mantelpiece, the amber liquid within glinting invitingly in the low light.

I’m reaching for it before I can stop myself. The stopper yields with a soft pop, the scent of aged whiskey sorely tempting. I might throw up, but maybe if I drink enough quickly, I could knock myself out before puking. My mouth waters, my body screaming for the oblivion the alcohol promises.

But I can’t. I can’t do that to my baby. To Dante’s baby. With a frustrated cry, I hurl the decanter at the marble fireplace. It shatters with a satisfying crash of glass and liquid.

And yet, beneath the frustration, the dark hunger grows. It coils in my belly, a desperate need for distraction. Sick of resisting, I grab the hem of my dress, and I yank it over my head, then I crumble to the floor.

Almost of their own accord, my hands begin to roam my body, seeking relief. I cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over pebbled nipples, then I pinch them. I gasp at the sensation, a jolt of pleasure amidst the pain.

My fingers trail lower, dipping between my thighs to find myself already slick with need. I circle my clit, hips bucking into my own touch, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach.

Dante’s name falls from my lips, a broken plea. I need him. Need his hands, his mouth, his cock. I need him to take me out of my head, to make me feel something, anything, other than this crushing guilt.

I’m so lost in my desperate pursuit of oblivion that I don’t hear the door. It’s only when I feel a presence looming over me that my eyes snap open, and I realize that I’m no longer alone.