OH, HOW THE BEAST INSIDE of me roared and snapped and snarled when I finally kissed Jill Jekel the way I’d wanted to for—how long?
Could I trace my attraction to that night in the diner when she’d walked by the window, her demure lace blouse somehow more intriguing than Becca Wright’s skintight T-shirt? Or had it started in chemistry class, where I watched that glossy ponytail swinging in hypnotic rhythm? Was that when she’d first mesmerized me? Or had it been the day I’d held her at her father’s funeral, felt her cling to me, so in need of strength, protection?
How ironic that as those soft, pink lips finally pressed against mine, uncertainly, and as Jill’s hands fluttered to find their proper place—my shoulders? hips? chest?—and as her mouth yielded to my gentle pressure, opening so I could feel her timid tongue against mine one time before my own mouth was seared and wrecked forever . . . How ironic that a kiss born of a desire to protect was all but overwhelmed by my struggle to control a force within me that wanted nothing less than to destroy Jill herself.
As she hesitantly drew closer into my embrace, resting against me, the beast wriggled in my soul, trying to break free, to take control.
Stop now, Tristen, I told myself. Stop before you black out.
Stop before you do something that can never be undone.
Yet the feel of Jill in my arms, the exhilarating, intoxicating mix of passion and tenderness that she elicited in me—it was like nothing I’d ever felt with any other girl, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to make the feeling end. I wanted the kiss to go on and on, fairly certain that it was my last, completely certain that it was the best, and I drew Jill even closer to me, hungry for her, a condemned man trying to savor his last meal even as he hears the construction of the scaffold just outside the cell.
“Oh, Jill,” I murmured, wanting to tell her that I loved her. Wanting to say so much but not wanting to pull away long enough to say it. “Jill,” I whispered, nuzzling against her soft, soft cheek, hoping she heard everything I wanted to express just in the way I spoke her name.
“Tristen . . .” I heard my emotions echoed in Jill’s voice, too. Sad, desperate bliss like my own. Her heart raced against my chest.
And I heard something else, too, intruding upon my thoughts. “Yes, Tristen . . .”
Its voice.
As I folded Jill to me, caressing her back, stroking her throat with my thumb, the words echoed softly but clearly from somewhere deep inside of me. A place that I was only beginning to recognize.
I’d felt the beast twisting within. But this was the first time I heard it speak.
Stop, Tristen, I told myself—even as I continued kissing Jill. The attraction, the passion, escalating as she ventured to slip her hands around my neck. Just one more minute, Tristen, and then never touch her again . . .
I thrust my hand into Jill’s hair, nearly dislodging her ponytail, hurrying the kiss, knowing that I couldn’t continue much longer.
“Jill, Jill,” I groaned when we both wasted a precious moment separating, needing oxygen to fuel an escalating intensity. I wanted her so badly. Wanted more than this before I died. “Oh, Jill . . .”
My own voice sounded strange in my ears. Yet somehow familiar. A voice I’d just heard.
Hurry, I told myself. Hurry or stop . . .
“Don’t stop . . . Don’t stop . . .”
Shutting out the command, silencing my now vocal foe, I tried to focus on Jill, tightening my arm around her waist, my lips grazing her throat. “Her soft, soft throat . . .”
“Tristen,” Jill murmured, sounding breathy but a little nervous as I nipped at her neck, hearing myself make a low growl of need. “Tristen?”
“Yes, love,” I murmured against her ear. “Yes . . .” “Yes, yes . . .”
Yes . . . Just another moment, and I would release her forever. “Oh, Jill . . .”
I didn’t mean to be rough or desperate, but time was running out, and I clamped hard upon her mouth, our lips grinding together, my hand digging into her hair.
“Take her, Tristen . . . And what you start I will finish . . .”
No . . . No . . .
My head began to ache from the struggle, a crushing pain, and I sensed that I was losing. Yet I couldn’t stop kissing her. This was my last chance . . . I clasped her more firmly, moving her back against the desk, trapping her, pressing our bodies together. Her hips wriggled against mine.
“That’s right. She wants this, too. Don’t listen, if she protests. She wants this . . .”
“Tristen,” Jill cried out softly, her hands no longer uncertain as I crushed her against the table. No, her palms were pressing against my chest, pushing back against me. Against us.
“Ignore her. Trap her there. Bend her backwards . . .”
“No, Tristen!” Jill called more loudly. More insistently, as if she knew that I was far away and she was desperate to reach me. “STOP! PLEASE!”
I was so far gone, losing to the beast, that I scarcely heard her. But her plea, the sound of her voice—the voice that I loved—it was enough to reach me even as everything began to grow black.
“Stop, Tristen,” Jill whimpered, on the verge of tears. “Please . . . stop . . .”
Like the dream. It was just how she sounded in the dream.
Without a word I snatched my hands away, released her squirming body, and stepped back, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth, which was wet with my saliva, Jill’s saliva. We were both breathing hard, almost panting. Her slender shoulders heaved. And her beautiful hazel eyes were wide with fear.
My stomach clenched to see the terror there.
No. I hadn’t wanted that. Never. Never to scare her. Or hurt her.
“I’m sorry, Jill,” I whispered. “So sorry.”
I’d almost failed to protect her. I’d wanted to be with her so badly that I’d almost been complicit . . .
Jill stared at me, face pale, hands raised slightly as if to ward me off should I step toward her.
“Oh, god.” I buried my face in my hands, afraid that I might break down. Too sickened to face that look in her eyes. “Oh, god, no.”
We stood apart in silence—as distant as we’d just been close. Jill didn’t try to touch me, and I didn’t try to excuse or explain myself, although I longed to tell her that I wasn’t like that. I wasn’t a guy who would . . . Especially not with her . . .
“Tristen?” Jill finally prompted, voice quiet. I heard the faint sound of the slipperlike shoes that she always wore tapping against the linoleum and then felt a tentative hand on my shoulder, and I nearly did break down.
She was better than me. Braver than me. She should have run screaming for help. Yet she touched me.
Dragging my shaking fingers through my hair, I stepped out of her reach and turned my back on her, unworthy of her concern and unable to show my face. “Leave, Jill. Please. Leave.”
She didn’t listen to me. Instead she stepped closer and stroked my shoulder. “Tristen . . . was that . . . ?” She seemed unable to finish the question. But I understood.
Was that the beast? Or you?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It doesn’t matter now, Jill.”
Straightening my shoulders, I went to the lab table, not giving her a moment to protest—if indeed she even thought of protesting. I raised the foul-smelling flask to my lips and without hesitation drank as much as I could, downing the disgusting brew in huge thirsty gulps, heedless of dosage, heedless of the havoc the strychnine would wreak on my body, because at that point I didn’t give a damn about a cure, and I wanted the agony. I’d seen the look in Jill’s eyes—the betrayal, the terror—and I wanted nothing less than to kill both the beast and myself.
Nothing less would do to punish what I’d nearly done.
Beast or no beast—I’d been there, too.