Page 44 of The Shape of Night

“He’s just a friend. I went out on his sailboat.”

He moves closer and I shiver as he lifts a strand of my hair and lets it glide through his fingers. “You were close enough to touch.”

“Yes, but—”

“Close enough to be tempted.”

“It was just a kiss. It meant nothing.”

“Yet I sense your guilt.” He is so close now, I can feel the heat of his breath in my hair. “Your shame.”

“Not about that. Not about today.”

“You have cause to feel shame.”

I stare into his eyes, which reflect the cold and pitiless gleam of starlight. His words have nothing to do with Ben Gordon and our innocent kiss. No, this is about what happened before I came to Maine. This is about New Year’s Eve and the sin for which I will never forgive myself. What he smells on my skin is the permanent stench of guilt.

“You allowed him to touch you.”

“Yes.”

“Defile you.”

I blink back tears. “Yes.”

“You desired it. You desired him.”

“I never meant it to happen. If I could go back to that night, if I could live it again—”

“But you cannot. That is why I’m here.”

I stare into those diamond-bright eyes. I hear righteous judgment in his voice and the promise of what will come. My heart pounds and my hands shake. For days I’ve longed for his return, hungered for his touch. Now that he stands before me, I am afraid of what awaits me.

“To the turret,” he commands.

My legs are unsteady as I walk out of the bedroom. Is it from drinking too much wine or is it fear that makes me stumble in the hallway? The floor feels like ice beneath my bare feet, and the damp air penetrates straight through my nightgown. I open the door to the staircase and halt, gazing up at the flickering candlelight above.

I stand at the threshold of his world. With each step I climb, I leave my own world farther and farther behind.

Up the stairs I go, the candlelight growing ever brighter. He is at my heels, his boot steps heavy and inexorable on the steps, preventing my retreat. There is only one direction I can go, and I ascend toward the room where I know both pleasure and punishment await.

At the top of the stairs, I swing the door wide open and step through, into the turret. Golden candlelight washes over me and I look down to see the skirt of coppery silk swishing at my ankles. No longer do I feel the night’s chill; a fire burns in the hearth, its flames licking at birch logs. The light of a dozen candles flickers in wall sconces and in the sea windows I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. The gown molds itself to my hips and my ivory-white breasts swell above the low-cut bodice.

I am in his world. His time.

He crosses to the curtained alcove. Already I know what lies behind those drapes. I have lain spread-eagled on that bed, felt the pleasure of his brutal attentions. But when he slides open the curtain, this time he reveals more than a bed, and I shrink away.

He holds out his hand. “Come, Ava.”

“What will you do to me?”

“What would you have me do?”

“You’re going to hurt me.”

“Is that not what you deserve?”

I do not have to answer him; he already knows that I can never punish myself enough for what has happened. He knows that guilt and shame are what have led me to this house, and to him. That I deserve whatever torment he chooses to deliver.

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