Page 25 of Whispered Desire

It soothes something in me. Something wild and dark and melancholic to the extreme.

Inhaling deeply, I hold the breath and gently bring the point of the razor to my inner wrist. Two prominent lines slash below the palm, symmetrical guidelines that my fuzzy brain appreciates.

A is for agony.

B is for blue.

C is for cold.

D is for death.

“What the hell are you doing?”

In a flash, the blade clatters to the floor as Mathias storms into the bathroom. Fire and fear form a molten glare in his diamond-hard eyes, frightening me in their intensity.

I stumble backward and bang into the glass shower wall.

Mathias pauses, glances at the fallen razor, then burns me with another penetrating stare. “What were you doing, Allie? If I hadn’t seen the light under the door…”

“I'd be fine.”

I've never gone too far in the past, and it wasn’t in my plan tonight.But the thought…The thought of hurting myself was a welcome distraction to the actual war going on in my body and mind.

“The damn razor was over your wrist. It was touching your skin.” He snags my limp wrist and raises it between us. His hold is surprisingly gentle considering the fury radiating from his body, but his carefulness doesn’t cause the fear in my veins to stall.

No, it’s gathering momentum, combining with the other fears thrashing my insides.

I swallow hard, willing myself to calm down.

Telling myself to do so has never worked in the past, but I really don’t want to break down in front of Mathias again.

Once today is my limit.

“That’s as far as it was going to go. I promise.”

Mathias runs a free hand through his ruffled hair. Did I wake him? Where did he come from?

“How are you here?” I ask, hoping to distract him.

“We share adjoining rooms. When the manor was originally built, these were the master and mistress suites.” He tugs me toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, flipping off the bathroom lights as we pass into my room’s twin—except for the bed. Somehow his is even larger than mine.

My footsteps stutter over another plush rug, but Mathias keeps pulling until we’re both tucked into his bed, his broad chest to my rigid back.

“Tell me what I walked into,” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath tickling my ear.

The medicine I took has taken some of the edge off my anxiety, but it’s going to be a few hours before I’m calm enough to sleep. Which means there’s no escape from Mathias’s questioning.

“I shouldn't be here. I want to go home.” It's not an answer to his question, but it's the best I can do.

Bailey may not be a good friend, and ours may not be a healthy friendship or living situation, but at least it’s familiar. Safe because I know what to expect.

“This was a mistake. I never should have agreed to whatever this is, and I definitely shouldn’t have gotten on that jet.”

“You’re scared.” His arm tightens around my waist, putting pressure on my belly. “I understand your apprehension. What I don’t get is how that translates to the scene I witnessed in the bathroom.”

“I’m having an anxiety attack.”

There I said it.

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