Page 3 of Dangerous Obsession

Fast as a snake strike, his palm connected with her cheek.

Her continued denials seemed to fuel his rage. A slap led to a shove, which led to a kick, which led to a punch, which led to her current state—curled up and cowering on the floor in a locked bathroom.

Marigold lay there, waiting for tears to come. They never did. It was as if her body had grown accustomed to the abuse and knew they were a waste of time.

Eyes closed, she performed a quick mental inventory of her injuries.

Pain pounded through her left arm with each rapid beat of her heart. There’d been a scarycrackwhen he shoved her against the tall, secondhand dresser in their bedroom. She was pretty sure he’d broken it this time.

Marigold winced when she laid her hand over her swollen and battered left cheek. Her vision was blurred, too. Had it been from his first punch or when she’d been slammed into the doorjamb?

Blood soaked into the white bath mat. Cliff would be upset about that.

She set aside the thought.A concern for later.Right now, her main worry was the terrifying pain that had ripped through her abdomen when she fell against the kitchen table.

Instincts Marigold had too-long ignored screamed at her to get out, that this was her last chance to escape. She knew with certainty he would kill her next time. It had been there, in his eyes, with each blow delivered.

She tried to focus, to calm her breathing the way she’d learned from the yoga DVD Dulce had given her a few years ago.

Palm flattened on the floor, she huffed and puffed as she levered up sideways to a seated position. The room spun. Her eyes slammed shut, and she swallowed back the bile clawing its way up her throat.

She rested against the bathtub. A few deep breaths and she risked opening her eyes. Well, her right eye, anyway. She just … needed a minute to catch her breath.

Keep going, a voice inside her said.She had to get the hell away from here before he came back.

Marigold placed her good hand on the toilet seat lid and managed to shove up to her knees. Her nostrils flared, and sweat broke out across her forehead. One arm hung limp, and her swollen fingers were starting to look like overstuffed sausages.

“Come on, Marigold.” She gritted her teeth. “You can do this. Pain is only temporary.”

A little pep talk couldn’t hurt, right? A light chuckle burst forth. Clearly, she was hysterical.

“One. Two. Three.” In one awkward motion, she flattened a hand on the edge of the tub, shoved herself up with a low groan, and stood.

Her mouth began to water, and nausea, powerful and unrelenting, barreled down on her like a Mac truck. She bent forward over the toilet in case she threw up, and pain screamed through her midsection. Eyes squeezed tight, she wavered and planted her hand on the edge of the counter to steady herself. She bit back a scream and somehow managed to breathe through the pain and queasiness.

Moments later, fairly confident she wouldn’t pass out, she straightened and prepared herself for what she would see in the mirror.

Some of her curls had come loose from her ponytail and fallen to hang over one side of her face. She lifted her uninjured arm to tug and drag the elastic band free. Hair snapped and pulled as it tangled in the long strands. She dropped it on the counter, then carefully tucked her hair behind her ears.

Slowly, she turned her head one way, then the other.Good grief.

It looked like she’d just gone three rounds with a prizefighter … and lost. Badly. Only her right eye stared back at her—her left was concealed under a disturbing, dark purple puffiness. She hoped there was no permanent damage. Below that, her bottom lip had begun to swell. Swaths of blood marred her forehead and cheek and oozed from a gash on the bridge of her nose, which now had an odd slant to it. And an intense burning sensation radiated outward from an odd lump in the middle of her left forearm.

Heavy makeup and dark sunglasses won’t hide this mess.

Marigold filled a cup with water and carefully rinsed out her mouth. Blood mixed with water and swirled down the drain. She snagged the washcloth from the rack and soaked it. Halfway to her face, she hesitated. As desperately as she wanted to clean herself up, she could hear Dulce’s voice so clearly in her head, it was as if she was wedged in that little bathroom with her.

“If it happens again, for God’s sake, make sure you get pictures.”

A twist of her wrist and the water shut off. The only sound in the small space was thedrip drip dripfrom the faucet. As she turned from the mirror, she noticed blood on the front of her favorite T-shirt. She’d bought it during a field trip to Washington, DC, her sophomore year of high school.

For the first time, a tear slipped from her eye. How silly was that?

Sure, she loved the shirt and hated the thought of throwing it away. But the sob trapped in her throat was for what the shirt symbolized. She’d had it since before meeting Cliff. It was one of the few things that truly belonged to her.

Marigold’s sorrow was swiftly shoved aside when pain tore through her abdomen again. She cried out, her hand flew to her midsection, and she doubled over. That’s when she saw it—a small, dark, pinkish spot about the size of a quarter darkening the front of her lavender skirt.

Oh, God.

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