“Eden?” Damon asked, probably shocked by my whack-a-mole tendencies. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “I can’t do this.” I took a jerky step forward, starting to run . . . somewhere, but I was tugged to an abrupt halt.
Not a rough grip, not a jolting or harsh movement, but suddenly finding myself tugged to a stop, my back against a hard chest, a firm arm banded around my waist, hot breath in my ear . . . and I freaked. I didn’t hear the gentle words, the soft “Baby? What is it?”
My past swarmed forward.
The darkness swamped my mind and in one heartbeat I was back there, on the opposite coast, in that apartment with him, the fists and kicks coming my way and—
I snapped.
Syrup had made me snap.
“Let go of me!” I screamed and tore at Damon’s arm, my nails scratching at the bare skin, creating bright red lines at first and then when he didn’t let go, cutting into his flesh.
Everything happened in both fast-forward and slow motion.
I saw the first cut, watched the blood drip, drip, drip slowly to my gray rug.
It felt like it took an hour for that drop to hit the plush fibers.
But then it did, the crimson circle spreading, staining.
“Let go!”
The arm dropped and then time sped up, more drops hitting the carpet, stained circles of red expanding, taking over, choking me.
“Ed—”
I scuttled backward, colliding with the dresser, hearing the items on top rattle, one or two falling over with a sickening crash, the crunch of glass shattering.
“No. No,” I said. “Oh God. Don’t touch me. Oh God. No.” My knees buckled, hit the hardwood on the edges of the room and I gasped out in pain.
“Shit,” Damon said. “Are you okay?” He took a step toward me.
I scooted backward, hit my head against the corner of the dresser, and stifled a cry.
It was better if I was quiet.
It would be over sooner. Would stop if I was just able to stay quiet.
“Eden.”
I shook my head jerkily.
“Eden.”
The sharp tone made me blink and probably worked better to snap me out of the past than anything else ever could. Because Damon didn’t snap. Not at me. Not at anyone. Not ever.
And that his raspy, velvety voice had sharpened to a point was shocking enough to have me coming back to reality.
To painful, humiliating reality.
“Eden. Look at me.” He was crouching about ten feet away, his hand clamped over his arm, blood running between his fingers. When I met his eyes, he held my gaze for a few moments then nodded, reaching over to grab the towel from where it had fallen to the floor.
Tears dripped down my cheeks, falling more steadily when I saw that I’d sliced his arm pretty badly.
“I hurt you,” I whispered. “I-I’m so s-sorry.”
Damon glanced up at me. “It’s just a scratch.”
It wasn’t. And now I’d become my worst nightmare.
He stood and instinctively, I cowered back against the dresser again. He froze. “I’m not going to touch you. I’m going to back up and stand by the door until I see you didn’t cut your knees or head to hell and back.”
Not the softest bedside manner. In fact, it was quite terse.
But I didn’t think I could handle soft and sweet at that moment.
I was critically embarrassed and ashamed and—
“Eden.”
I pushed to my feet.
Silence then, “Now turn so I can make sure you’re not bleeding.”
I turned.
“Okay,” he growled. “Your ass is back in your bed and you’re eating your fucking toast.”
My chin lifted, the orders piling up enough that I was starting to feel more like myself. “Stop snapping at me.”
“Then eat your fucking breakfast.”
“No.”
“Eden.”
“Fuck you, Damon.”
I couldn’t explain it, but for some reason, me cursing at him made Damon’s shoulders relax, his face clear. “There you are, baby.”
My lips parted on a surprised exhale. “What?”
“You’re you again.” But he didn’t move from the doorway, and I couldn’t lie and say I wasn’t thankful. “Now, be you, but be you eating the breakfast while it’s warm.”
I hesitated, stomach growling, wanting to sit down and eat, but also feeling very fragile and raw and flayed open. I wanted to—
“I’ll leave you alone,” he murmured.
That.
I wanted to be alone. To forget I’d just done that, that I’d hurt him, that I’d freaked out and revealed—
“But I’ll come back, baby. And we’re going to talk about this.”
Fuck.
I shook my head.
Damon didn’t respond to that.
Instead, he just took a few steps back into the hall, repeated, “We’re going to talk,” and ordered, ”Lock up when I leave.” Then he turned and left.
Talk.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Five
Damon
I sat in my car for several long moments, trying to figure out what had happened and trying not to feel guilty for it.
Except, I did.
Because I’d pushed.
And she’d . . .
Freaked? Yes, but that wasn’t just a simple freak out, or a model throwing a hissy fit. Hell, I’d endured enough of those on set to know the difference. Which meant I knew without a doubt that hadn’t been Eden pulling some drama.
That was PTSD. That was trauma. That was—
Absolute terror.
And I’d been party to it.
A drip landing on my leg had me blinking and shoving the key into the ignition. I needed to go home and deal with my arm, and then I needed to figure out how to move forward.
Because I had the feeling I’d just opened up a fuck-ton of painful memories, and I didn’t know how I could possibly justify my pushing.
She’d asked me to leave, and I’d—
“Shit,” I muttered, putting the car into reverse and backing out of the driveway, happy I’d followed her home the night before so I could leave easily now, even though me following her home had been another way for her to create distance. Run along now. Get your ass in your car and leave.
Well, that had worked perfectly, hadn’t it?
I’d had the most spectacular sex of my life—five times over—and now
