Page 468 of Dark Love

“That’s your fault.”

“Mine?”

“You gave me the perfect day.” Well, mostly perfect if you ignore the drama from Hope and our little exercises in getting to know one another. Okay, fine, it’s basically been the last hour or three doing nothing but being lazy.

It also doesn’t hurt that even though I’m pretending to lie on a mountain of pillows, I’m mostly lying on Vex’s shoulder.

He takes a long deep breath, and I sigh inside.

“Dahl, we need to have a conversation.”

That’s not a happy voice. We aren’t going to discuss a book or how many shelves to stuff in this room. Or what kind of chair he wants to go next to mine. Though right now I’m leaning towards one couch that we can both sprawl out on it kind of like this. “Are you going to say something I need marshmallows for?”

“No.”

I let out an actual sigh this time. With more effort than would be expected, I push myself up and into a sitting position with my legs crossed, facing Vex. “Hit me with it?”

“Have I told you that you’re nutty today?” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Maybe. Whatever it is, you don’t need to worry about me.”

He practically snorts.

Talk about cute. “Okay, only a little worrying then.”

“You’re all I think about.”

WOW. That got heavy fast.

“Since I carried you out of my club, all I’ve done is worry. What I’m about to do feels wrong? My job is to protect you, and instead, I’m about to expose you to more trauma. You can say no. Do not in any way feel obligated. Only do this if you believe it will benefit you.”

Um. This is odd.

“I’ve noticed your hand trembling and occasionally you act like you might have a panic attack.”

How did he—I haven’t been hiding it as well as I thought.

“When I carried you out, I hoped that—Anyway—This is stupid. They’ve got to be wrong.”

Huh? What could possibly have Vex this discombobulated? “Who is wrong?”

“A doctor. The doctors have to be wrong. Exposing you to more trauma can’t be good for you. I won’t do it.”

Doctors. Vex talked to a doctor about me. “What do you mean, exposing me to trauma?”

“You weren’t the only one that filth roofied.”

WHAT?

“One of the women survived.”

Survived. One. “How many?”

“Does the number really matter, Dahlia?”

It shouldn’t. “Tell me.” Don’t tell me. I want to hide under a blanket and pretend none of this happened.

“Hundreds.”

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