Page 21 of A Touch of Dark
A refusal springs to my lips but dies before I can voice it. Turning my back to him, I perch myself on the edge of the table and shift my weight so that he’s on my left. Inch by inch, I lower myself backward until the chilled wood bites into my skin.
“Don’t relax,” he warns as his hand settles over my outstretched wrist. His fingers give the flesh an examining brush. “I want you to feel.”
The request haunts me as my gaze flickers up to the shadowed ceiling. These days, I don’t have time to feel. I project—confidence, fearlessness, perfection.
Who am I without that so-called priceless frock crumpled on the floor?
I doubt a blind psychopath can tell me.
“What are you doing?” I croak as his touch continues up my arm, encroaching on my collarbone.
He says nothing. Every now and again, I hear the telltale hiss of charcoal scraping parchment, but I’m not brave enough to check his progress for myself.
Instead, my eyes drift shut as if of their own accord. Darkness and silence are the only tools I have to decipher the events taking place around me. Electricity humming. Artificial heat blasting. Hot, smooth skin exploring my own.
It should feel worse. I can’t escape the thought. Having him touch me should feel worse than it does. If only there weren’t a discernible method to his madness. He touches me where he must, gleaning what secrets my flesh contains before moving on to another area. Scratch, scratch goes the stick of charcoal, tracking his progress.
My arms. Shoulders. Hands.
My breasts…
“W-wait!” I can’t smother a cry when he cups one with his palm. “Don’t—”
“Leave, or stay,” he warns, his palm stilling.
My heart races, threatening to hammer right out of my chest. Somehow, I manage to lie still, and he continues his study of me. He’s not slow and deliberate with this part of my anatomy, however. One pass is all he makes before moving on. You’ve sketched one set of breasts, I guess you’ve sketched them all.
It’s my hips that consume the most attention.
“You have scars,” he says, unable to disguise a note of curiosity. “From what?”
None of your business.The words don’t come out, and he continues his groping without waiting for a response.
When his touch finally withdraws, the sounds of sketching pick up in earnest. Bold, sure strokes. Smaller, light dashes.
I let my mind wander, trying to envision what he comes up with. All I can picture is a shapeless mass of shadow. Somehow, I know when he’s finished without him having to say a word. My eyes open slowly, and I roll away from him, crossing my arms over my chest.
Pitch-black windows give a vague inkling of how much time has passed. Hours at least.
When I finally look over my shoulder at him, his hands are braced flat against the table and the tips of his fingers are blacker than ever. He touched me like that, tainted with the stain. I’m dotted in more fingerprints than the actual paper—like a canvas.
“Well?” He gestures to the finished drawing, his head cocked as if listening for my reaction, and I’m painfully aware of my rapid, shallow breaths.
I look down, biting my tongue. He made this sketch larger than the last. It consumes nearly the entire page: the result of shading and smeared charcoal.
The woman staring up at me is an enigma. I don’t recognize her. Or maybe I don’t want to. She’s more like a specter: someone I catch only glimpses of before I banish her with red lipstick and my custom wardrobe.
Someone I hide. Scorn. Shun.
But she gets her revenge now. Damien’s sought her out and pushed her presence right in my face.
“I request that we end this visit now, Ms. Thorne,” he says, rising to his feet. After extending his cane, he heads for the door, steadier than I feel. “Keep the scrap paper, but forget this address. Best regards to your father. I’m sure it will be quite the media spectacle when he announces his return to politics.”
He’s gone through the doorway before I fully register the intent of his words.Definitelya threat that time.
What’s more alarming is my reaction. I’m not trembling when I finally place my feet on the floor and pull on my discarded dress.
I fully intend to leave the drawing, and I make it all the way to the elevator doors, wandering a hallway devoid of Damien. My finger strikes the button. The elevator arrives.
