Page 48 of Heart of a Villain

“Closeness, connection.”

“Exactly.”

Tayler, one hand still on her shoulder, gently squeezed. Though the touch was light, there was firmness to it. Though gentle, there was tenderness. It was how she imagined Tayler would console Ayesha, Larke, Xara—any one of them that wasn’t her.

“We can do whatever you’d like,” Tayler assured her. “But, I can’t for certain say that it’ll help, especially if it hasn’t yet. Let me talk to Gage—not about this, something else. Something that might help. In the meantime…does Adrían know?”

“About?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“Your last…experience.”

“I can’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’m ashamed. I don’t know how he’ll react. I don’t…want to talk about it. I don’t know.”

Tayler pulled her into a hug.

She’d expected to stiffen or leave her arms dangling by her sides, but she wrapped them around Tayler and melted into the embrace.

For the first time in a long time, only a few changes would make her life perfect: her gaining the ability to set her demons aside, her and Adrían adding onto what they’d started in Morocco, and for her to feel like this was home. The third, however, was happening almost as quickly as her rekindling desire for Adrían.

That day, at breakfast, when he’d made the quip about her coming down his throat, it wasn’t fear or disgust that prickled her skin. She was hit, unexpectedly, with the memory of that moment with him in the dark and the sound of his groaning pleasure as he pulsed against her lips. What followed was the realization that it could happen again. While not guaranteed, it wasn’t as impossible as it had been before.

“Thank you, Tayler,” she mumbled against Tayler’s shoulder.

“Of course, sis.” Tayler held her tighter. “Anytime.”

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Sayeda’s eyes opened.

The lamp was off, and there was no light beneath the bathroom door. She was alone, in complete darkness, all over again, and she saw herself as if she’d split into two people—a present Sayeda and the Sayeda from one of the darkest days in her past.

Lightning flashed as Past Sayeda shook out her umbrella in her apartment entryway in Brazil, and the flash illuminated the side of a man’s face sitting on her sofa. Past Sayeda flipped a switch, assuming she was seeing things, but no lights came on. Without uttering a word, the man rose and approached her, the storm providing her with only snatches of his face until he was inches in front of her.

First, she saw Lorenzo.

Then Lorenzo morphed into Novi.

Paoli.

Her mother.

“Sayeda…”

The voice sounded like Adrían’s, but Past Sayeda hadn’t seen Adrían in years. And if Adrían had been there, he would have helped Past Sayeda. He wouldn’t stand around, watching as Lorenzo moved about her apartment as if he’d memorized the layout long before that night he showed up.

“Sayeda,” the voice called again. “It’s me, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

Only then did she hear the screams, felt the hoarseness in her throat. That noise, that was her—she was the one screaming. But Past Sayeda didn’t scream. She couldn’t. She’d tried, but she could barely move. Did Lorenzo do something? What did he do? What had he done?

What was he doing?

A large hand circled her wrist.

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