Page 70 of Property of Chaos

“Because this is about you, Vanessa.” The fucking asshole twists his wrist as his fingers enter me again, curling them toward the sweet spot on my front.Oh no, he isn’t.I may have done my best to avoid relationships in more recent years, but I’ve been around the block enough times to know what this means.

“I can’t,” I whine. “Oh my God. It’s too much.”

He tugs his hand free with a wet pop. “Your pussy seems to tell me it can.”

The damn slickness coats my ass.There is no shame here.

“Besides,” Chaos purrs. “You’re not saying the word that’ll make me stop.”

Enigma.It rattles in my mind, tangled with criticisms.Whore. Shameful. You’re tainted. Nobody will want you after they’ve seen this—even him.The last line jars my eyes open, breath stuck in my throat.

Hesaid that.Hetold me those words before I left.

I can’t… I can’t breathe.Fuck.

“Enigma.”

TWENTY-SIX

CHAOS

She’s not breathing right.

Vanessa scrambles sideways, sliding off the counter, her foot collecting me in the throat in her haste. “I’m sorry,” she wheezes, hand clutched to her chest. “I…” Her lips move, yet words fail to come out.

“Hey.” I hastily wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and push to my feet to go after her. “Baby, stop. Just sit down.”

She takes a sidestep, legs weak like a fawn, and collapses to the floorboards. Panicked eyes gaze up at me.She’s so beautiful when she’s vulnerable like this.No. Not now.

“Look at me.” I drop to my haunches before her. “Focus on me. You’re here. With me. Safe.”

Her chest rises, yet it’s a staggered, hyperventilated breath. Vanessa swallows, over and over, to dislodge the lump in her throat.

“Fuck.” I glance around me, frown when I don’t see what I need, and launch toward the hallway. “I’m not leaving you.” The affirmation falls naturally from my lips. Habit, thanks to Selena.

Murphy stretches when he sees me enter her room.

“Where the fuck are you when she needs you?” I mumble to the asshole before ripping the bedspread from beneath him. “Selfish fucker.”

Vanessa’s right where I left her when I re-enter the living room: legs bent—one beneath her and one poking out beside her—hands clasped to her breastbone.

I throw the heavy blanket over her, dropping myself to the floor and bundling the fabric around her stomach.

“Five things you can see.”

She stares at me wide-eyed. Surely she’s come across this exercise before with her history of therapy?

“What can you see, Vanessa?” I growl the order, fixing the way the blanket cradles her face.

Her mouth moves, and she wets her dry lips. “You.”

“Good.” I reposition myself so that my legs envelop her, thighs cinched around her knees. “Four more.”

“The chair.” Her gaze shifts over my right shoulder, voice raspy. “Window. Lamp. Rug.”

“Five things you can hear.” I carefully pull her hands away from her chest, enclosing them in mine.

“The clock.” She frowns as though fighting a smile. “You breathing. My heartbeat.” She pauses, head turning slightly. “The blanket when I move. I don’t know what else.”

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