Page 54 of Vicious Games

He held up a placating hand. “It’s okay, baby. I’m not angry.”

I backed away, gripping the scissors with both hands and holding them out in front of me. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“I’m going to get you help. I will protect you, just like before.”

I frowned. “Before? What do you mean, before?”

Roman gave me a sympathetic look. “With your parents.”

“But I didn’t shoot my parents. You know that. And I didn’t shoot you! I could never… I would never—”

My mind flashed back to the time I shot a gun at him in his office. “That other time wasn’t real. I mean it was, but it wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” My head swam. “What is happening? I don’t understand.”

Roman approached me. “Sweetheart, put the scissors down.”

I wiped my sweaty palm on my bloody dress and gripped the scissors harder. “Stay back. Don’t come any closer.”

“Baby, I’m trying to help you. You need to trust me.”

Trust him? That was a laugh.

My eyes narrowed as I held the scissors higher. “What did you do?”

“Please, just put down the scissors and we’ll talk this out. I’m not angry with you. I just want to help you.”

“What did you do? You did this! I know you did. Your wound’s probably fake. You’re just trying to trick me.”

His lips thinned as he pulled the shirt away from his chest. He grimaced when the sticky fabric clung to the already drying blood on his skin. As he lowered the shirt, fresh blood oozed from the wound. I knew nothing about gunshot wounds, but it was definitely a real wound. There was no faking the blood dripping down his chest or how I could see his flesh split open.

I shook my head as I dropped the scissors. They clattered to the floor at my feet. “No. No. This isn’t real. I don’t remember… why would I shoot you?”

Roman surged forward. His hands gripped my shoulders. “Baby, look at me. Look at me!”

His urgent tone broke through my fog. I raised my gaze to him.

“I’m going to protect you. Do you understand me? I don’t care what you did. We’ll get through this together.”

I buried my head against his chest, uncaring about the blood. “I don’t know what’s happening, Roman. I don’t remember.”

Disjointed pictures flashed across my mind.

Westminster Abbey.

An orchestra playing the wedding march.

Me walking down an aisle in a white dress with Roman at my side.

Wedding guests.

A gun in my hand.

The altar.

The bishop.

A gunshot.

Screaming.

---