Page 70 of The Contract

“Dante,” I say quietly as he lets out another bad sound. He’s breathing hard. The room is dark, but my eyes are adjusted to it, and I can see him twitching.

I reach out and squeeze his shoulder. It doesn’t wake him up, so I shake him. He lurches up with a broken cry. His head whips my way. Before I can figure out what to say or do, he scrambles away from me.

“Dante!” I shout as he tumbles out of the bed. He hits the hardwood floor with a thump. I lurch after him, but he’s already scrambling to his feet.

He races to the bathroom and slams the door shut. Heart racing, I kick the sheets aside and bolt out of the bed after him. I stop at the closed door when I hear him throwing up.

Holy shit. What the fuck just happened?

A nightmare, obviously, but … holy shit.

I don’t know what to do. I press my hands to the door. I hear him spit. I hear him make a sound I don’t like.

“Dante,” I call through the door.

He doesn’t reply. The bathroom is still dark. I don’t think he’s moved. Then the toilet flushes, and I hear him walking. Light glows around the edges of the door. The faucet turns on, and the water runs for a long time. It shuts off.

“Dante,” I call again when there’s been no further sound for a while.

Cautiously, I open the door. With his back to me, Dante is standing naked at the sink. His hands are gripping the edge of it, and he’s leaning against them. His head is bowed so that even in the mirror I can’t see his face.

“Dante … fuck, are you okay?”

His head whips up, and he glares at me via the mirror. “Get out.”

My heart skips. “I need to know if you’re okay.”

He turns to face me. There’s something about the movement, how measured it is, that makes my skin tighten. I rock back but hold my ground as he comes stalking my way.

The bruising on the left side of his face and on his stomach, not to mention the bled-through bandage, should make him look at least a little vulnerable, they only make him look more dangerous. Even the older wounds, the ones I dealt him, add to the sense of threat. Nothing will take him down. Nothing will stop him.

The circumstances that led to this moment vanish from my mind as Dante crowds into me. When he’s this dangerous, there is no room for anything but instinct.

I take a step back. Then another. I’m in the bedroom now, in the darkness.

Dante grabs me by the throat and spins, slamming me into the wall by the bathroom door. The light that spills out limns hisjaw and splashes over the contours of his body. Every muscle is tense, especially from his shoulder to his wrist. I can’t see his hand because it’s clamped on my throat.

“Dante,” I choke out, pulling at his wrist. He’s choking me too hard. It hurts. I can’t breathe.

His lip curls back from his teeth as he snarls, “I don’t fucking want you here. I don’t fucking want this. I fuckinghateit!”

“Dante—”

He yanks me away from the wall and half throws me across the room. “Get the fuck out!” he shouts as I fall to my hands and knees. “Get the fuck outnow!”

My heart is in my throat, choking me in place of his hand, as I scramble for my clothes. Dante is still shouting.Get out! I don’t want this! I don’t want you! Get out, get the fuck away from me!

A sob breaks from me as I race out of the room, clothes and shoes clutched to my chest. I stumble down the stairs and bolt past the kitchen and living room.

I stop in the entryway, gasping for breath, tears running down my face, my heart still pounding. I can hear things breaking upstairs, so at least I know he’s not after me. I pull my clothes on at lightning speed and don’t even bother with my shoelaces before I yank open the door and race toward the elevator.

TWENTY-THREE

Tristan

I’ve been at the homeless shelter, one I’ve used in the past, for two days before it occurs to me that I have enough money for a hotel. I actually have a lot of money, at least by my standards, because Dante has been paying me. Paying me for sex.

Calling it an allowance doesn’t change that fact.

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