Page 70 of Killing Emma

I wince as he jabs me with the needle. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Jude shrugs. “I think she’s a ticking time bomb. Something in her is going to snap—and then she’s going to explode. Too much has happened to her for her to be so… calm.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Emma

The shower dulled the throbbing in the back of my head, and after running my hand over and over it, there’s no knots or indents. I don’t know how to feel as I slide into a pair of black knit shorts and a plain white T-shirt. My damp hair hits my shoulders after I towel dry it, and then I slowly but surely run a brush through it. The motion of my arm catches my attention in the mirror, and I glance at myself, frowning.

I’ve been avoiding mirrors since I was released from the basement. There’s no makeup to patch up my uneven complexion, and every time I look at myself, the dark circles seem to get, well… darker. And as I meet my blue-green eyes, I barely even recognize myself.

I went to a suicide chamber tonight.

I’m sleeping with my kidnapper.

My husband is trying to kill me for my money.

I set the brush down on the black countertop, and step away from the mirror as my mind racks with so many questions—like why did he do it? And how did I miss the signs? Am I really that stupid and naïve?

My stomach lurches as I head for the bed, the one I share with Luca. I flip the covers back and climb into it, unable to come up with anything else to do with my time. I rest my head back against the pillow and stare up at the ceiling fan as the turning blades make the shadows dance.

I brush my fingertips across the place on my neck Luca has choked me, three times with the intent to kill. It seems to phase me less and less, and don’t know if it’s because I’m beginning to trust that he won’t, or if I’m starting to not care if he does. It’s safe to say I’ll probably need therapy when I get out of here.

But I won’t go.

Why would Luca let me go?

No, why would Luca let me go?

I blink a couple of times, considering the question that’s suddenly got my heart racing. I have so much dirt on him. I know he goes to a secret club to kill people. I watched him brutally stab his partner. He’s tried to kill me three times.

There’s no way he’ll let me go with my life.

I grab one of the pillows, clutching it in my arms as I roll to my side. I don’t feel the urge to cry. I just feel confused. Maybe I do have a concussion. I mean, I ran willingly into what happened tonight, all because I was jealous.

I know I have feelings for Luca. But are they real? Or are they just a figment of my imagination used to cope with all the shit that’s happening to me? If he let me go—which isn’t going to happen—would I still want him?

I don’t know.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I swallow a lump in my throat. In twenty—er, nineteen—days, I have to get out of here. No matter what I have to do. I have loose ends to tie up. I need answers, and I don’t want help. Maybe then I’ll have my clarity back again.

The creak of the bedroom door interrupts my thoughts, and I know it’s him. It’s always him, which has become comforting, even after tonight.

“How’s your head?” his voice carries across the bedroom.

“It’ll be fine by tomorrow. How’s your leg?”

“Stitched up,” he chuckles, and I feel the covers shift against my back. Luca smells like a fresh shower, and my guess is he took one downstairs. “Jude left for the evening. He’s gotta do some digging into the men he saw there.”

“Okay.” I focus on the wall across from me, where a picture of black and white mountains hangs. It’s funny how everything in the house is so black and white—but there’s nothing black and white about Luca and me. I don’t know what we’re doing, but I’m sure it’s fucked up. It’s probably fucking us both up.

Fingers brush down my bare arms, and I let out a sigh, some of my tension releasing. I hate how easily he can make me forget about the chaos in my head when he touches me. And I hate that I don’t know how to talk to him about said chaos. I want to. I don’t want to bottle it all up like I always do.

“Emma,” Luca murmurs into the side of my neck. “I’m so sorry.”

I take a deep breath as his lips skim my neck. “I told you already that it’s fine. I’d rather you try to kill me than get a lap dance.”

He chuckles. “How about none of either? I’m tired of failing, and strippers aren’t really my type.”

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