No One Lives Forever

After he shut his eyes, she resisted the urge to touch his cheek and brush back a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. In this light, he reminded her of Nicky when he was younger. She took a deep breath and blocked the image from her mind as she walked toward the door to his room.

'Good night, Christian.' She glanced over her shoulder and saw him fast asleep. But when she turned off the light switch, he called out to her.

'Please d-don't,' he pleaded. 'Leave them on.'

Of all people, Jasmine understood whatever demons plagued his sleep. She had more than a few of her own. She left the recessed lights on and shut the door.

Out of habit, Jasmine performed her duty and checked all the surveillance gear throughout the suite. No one had entered the room besides housekeeping staff. She closed the drapes and shut the place down for the night. Standing by the French doors, she touched the windowpane where the glass had been broken, the sting of her mistake fresh in her mind.

Her nightly ritual of self-torment.

If only Nicky had let her fight. That night, he shook his head, a gentle no, probably trying to protect her. Didn't he know her job was to defend him? She would have died for him. If she had it to do over, she would have. Anything was better than living with regret. Nicky always said regret was a waste of time, but at this moment she indulged in it. Wallowed in it. Let it swallow her whole.

'Stay alive, my love,' she whispered. After a long moment, she headed for her room by way of the bar, grabbing a bottle of vodka and a glass. All she wanted was a hot bath and enough mind-numbing liquor to mask the steady barrage of guilt she felt coming back to Brazil.

She had no choice, really. Her destiny, one way or another, was here . . . with Nicky.

Her thoughts never strayed from him. She saw him everywhere, felt her connection to him, especially here in this suite. The last place she saw him alive. She fought back a tear as his handsome face came to her again. His luscious, wicked smile. The violet blue of his eyes. His absolute masculinity. She smelled his warm skin on her pillow, even after the linens were changed. The man could stop her heart. . . and often did. She knew Nicky had branded her soul and left his mark. No one else would ever take his place.

In her room, she filled the tub with steamy water and sank into the suds, glass of vodka in hand. She stared across the bathroom, her mind lost in the past. Without much in her stomach, the alcohol worked through her muscles, leaving her legs and arms sluggish and heavy. And the hot water only intensified the sensation, making her feel weak.

Tonight, the ghosts of her past would visit. And without Nicky, she would be alone to face them.

Nicholas stared into blackness, his lungs heaving for air. Fear gripped him like a fist crushing his heart. He couldn't catch his breath.

'H-Help me.'

Without warning, a flashbulb burst light across his cell, blinding him. Pop . . . pop . . . flash. Cowering, he shoved his back against the wall and held up a hand to shield his watering eyes. As he moved, a sick wheeze got worse, deep in his throat. A death rattle. Muscles in his chest burned, the heat blossoming from the pit of his stomach. It radiated through his arms and legs, making them feel sluggish and heavy.

'Can't b-breathe,' he cried. 'I c-can't. . .'

Flashes of light strafed the murky black as he clutched his shirt, tugging at the collar. Buttons popped off. His shirt tore. A bitter taste in his mouth forced him to spit, but the growing numbness of his tongue swelled his throat, constricting his windpipe.

'W-What h-have you . . . d-done?' A raspy whisper, his voice sounded more like a garbled gag. He heaved, but fought the urge to throw up. In his condition, he might drown in his own vomit.

Amidst flickering shadows and the throbbing light, he watched with strange fascination as the bars to his jail cell began to melt. Liquid silver drained to the ground and pooled near his feet. Even with the bars down, he was too weak to free himself. Then the silver took on life and slithered toward him like a nest of venomous snakes. With his lungs on fire and his gasping worse, he scrambled to get away with nowhere to go. The molten pool touched his heel and a massive numbing sensation invaded his body, crawling up his legs inch by inch.

'No . . . Nooo.'

The realization hit him, hard. His hallucinations were drug induced. Wide-eyed, he found what was left of his evening meal and kicked the tin plate with his foot. Too late.

'P-Poi . . . son,' he choked.

Somewhere in the dark, a man laughed. It grew louder and louder. His cruel cackle echoed off walls, magnifying his captor's degrading brutality. Nicholas slumped against the wall, his chest barely moving now. His violet blue eyes glazed over, milky white. Spittle ran down his chin as he thrashed, his body fighting for every breath.

Unmerciful laughter filled the room again, muffling his dying gasps, until there was nothing but eerie silence. Nicky no longer struggled for air. He had no need for it now.

Heavy footsteps on wooden stairs intruded upon the quiet, with no reverence for his death. A dark memory emerged, compounding the atrocity.

This couldn't be happening. Not again.

'Nooo!' The high-pitched scream, muffled at first, then grew louder. 'Nooooo!'

Jasmine sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart pounded, jarring her rib cage and pulsing against her eardrums. She had never known such fear, not since she was a little girl. Her eyes searched the darkness to anchor her in the present, hoping to escape Nicky's dead eyes and the horror of her childhood terror revisited.

Hotel Palma Dourada. Haze from the moon filtered through the sheers of her hotel window, a feeble match against the neon city lights below. Still panting, she peered around the bedroom, orienting herself to time and place. Yet the vivid nightmare of Nicky dying meshed with the sound of her drunk uncle climbing the stairs, coming to her room in the middle of the night. Her childhood tormentor.

An icy chill raced across her skin, made worse by the cool sheen of sweat covering her body. Jasmine clutched at her blankets, pulling them close, but nothing warmed her.

In the dark, the graphic memory permeated every fiber of her being as if it were happening again.

Even fully awake, she couldn't shake it. A familiar whimper teased her senses. On countless nights, her screams muffled with her small face shoved into a pillow. Powerful hands took over and her uncle's brutish grunting and explosive release never summoned help. Abusive threats followed each violation, a whispered taunt meant only for her, even as she writhed in pain. And if she dared to resist, he inflicted greater punishment, invading her small body . . . and her very soul.

Paralyzed by her past, Jasmine recalled the greatest betrayal of all—the face of her hypocritical mother. The woman refused to help and left Jasmine to her fate—time and time again—with dull, beat-down eyes mixed with a hardened apathy. Her mother denied the transgression by dutifully washing Jasmine's bloody sheets without question, avoiding her child's accusing eyes.

'Fuck you, Mother!' Jasmine cursed the image of the woman's face. The hurt stung like a fresh wound.

After her bad dreams, Nicky had always heard her cries and held her until she fell back to sleep. Sometimes she tried to entice him with sex, but Nicky knew what she needed. He would pull her to his chest and stroke her hair with a tenderness she had never known. The beat of his heart gave her comfort, her ear nuzzled against his warm skin. And his deep baritone reassured her, the words less important than the safety of his arms.