Alexa stood in the upstairs hallway of her parents’ mansion, the house dark and silent. Every single door was closed, and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She took a step forward, almost tripping when her legs became tangled in the pure-white gown she wore.
Her father’s laughter echoed from behind one of the doors, followed by the sharp bang of a gunshot. Gasping, she gathered up her heavy skirt and started to run for the stairs. But as though the house had yawned, the hallway stretched ahead of her, longer than it had been a second ago. Struggling against her skirt, she redoubled her efforts, but the staircase stayed exactly where it was, twenty feet in front of her.
Her feet tangled in her dress, and she tripped and fell, landing on the floor with a hard thud that echoed in the silent hall. Finally, practically swimming through the yards of white silk around her, she reached a door and shoved it open.
Bright lights blinded her, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. An octagon stood before her, surrounded by padding and a chain-link fence.
Zack stood in the center of the octagon, wearing a T-shirt and shorts, punching a bag that hung from a heavy metal chain. Hope and relief filled her at the sight of him, and, gathering her skirts up, she started to run toward the cage.
“How could you?” Taylor’s voice came from behind her. She stood a few feet away, a guitar in her hands and a wounded expression on her face. “I thought you were my friend. I thought you were good.”
“I didn’t…I would never…We…It’s pretend…,” she rasped out. Her dress had turned from white to a dirty, sullen gray.
Another gunshot sounded, and Alexa shut her eyes tightly. Silence surrounded her, and when she opened them, she was in her father’s library.
He sat behind his desk, wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief. Her eyes darted to the corner, and she caught a glimpse of herself, age seven, her tiny face barely visible through the slit in the door that led to her hiding spot. An unconscious man sat roped to a chair in front of the desk, his face beaten and bloody.
She’d watched her father slam his fists into the man’s face as her father’s friend Elijah stood by. They’d taken turns asking him questions that she hadn’t understood. They hadn’t liked his answers, though. That much had been clear.
“What happened to your dress?” Her father looked up at her from his desk. She glanced around, making sure he was speaking to her, the adult Alexa, and then down at her dress. The gray had deepened, dull and smeary.
“I’m sorry,” she said, smoothing her hands over the fabric.
“You should be. Mr. Hendricks wasn’t impressed with you at dinner.”
At the name, her stomach revolted, and she swallowed hard, fighting against the wave of nausea roiling through her. “I’m sorry,” she said again, hating that she’d disappointed him and hating herself for hating it.
“I think you might still have a chance at the role, though,” he said casually, dropping the bloody handkerchief onto his desk. “He’s staying over. He’ll be in the main guest room. If you go see him in his room, I’m sure he can be persuaded.”
Hot tears rolled down her face as shame and humiliation washed over her. “No. Not that. I won’t do that again.”
Calmly, he rose from his desk and closed the distance between them. “You’ll do what I tell you to do. If that means playing the whore, that’s what you’ll do. Seems to be the only thing you’re actually good at.”
His words were like a knife, piercing her heart and twisting. Tugging and sawing until it wasn’t recognizable as a heart anymore.
“I won’t. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
He slapped her with the back of his hand, and pain crashed across her face in a hot, dizzying wave. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Detective Morales from the doorway, her gun pointed at Alexa’s father.
All the blood drained from her father’s face, his fists shaking with rage. “How could you?”
“I’m…I’m not sorry,” she whispered, and watched as her dress changed from gray to black, inky patches blooming on the silk like dye in water.
“Then you’d better run, little girl,” her father snarled at her, and she gathered up her skirt and pushed out of the library, running and running and running, feeling as though she were underwater, moving slower with each step. Finally, she reached the stairs, but as soon as she moved to place her foot on the top step, they vanished, and she fell, her dress disintegrating into ash.
Alexa jerked in bed, her skin slick with sweat and the sheets bunched around her. The duvet had fallen completely to the floor, and as she moved to untangle herself from the sheets, cool air greeted her overheated skin. Lying back down, she pressed a hand to her chest, her heart pounding fiercely against her palm. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on her breathing, but when she did, all the images of the dream came rushing back at her, jumbling together until her head throbbed and she thought she might throw up. With a frustrated sigh, she reached over and turned on the lamp. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees and let the tears come, knowing there was no use fighting them.
God, she was probably dehydrated, she’d cried so much over the past day.
And right now they were selfish tears. She wasn’t crying for her father’s victims, or even because she felt bad about what was happening. Right now, alone in the middle of the night, she was crying for herself. For the scared little girl she’d been. For the abuse she’d suffered as a teenager. For the life, the identity she’d lost, everything she’d known turning to ash around her, just like her dress in the dream. For the way she ached for Zack, a man she had no business wanting.
She was a horrible person. A disloyal daughter and a greedy, uncaring friend. A naive fool. A whore. Damaged and broken. A liar who hid her true face from everyone she loved, lest they see her for who she really was.
“Ugh, stop,” she chided herself, wiping her tears away and shoving her hands through her slightly tangled hair as she tried to stop the downward spiral. She had friends who cared about her. A safe place to stay. A plan to help prevent her father from hurting more people in the future. Zack to keep her safe. So many things to be grateful for.
She picked up her phone from its spot on the bedside table to check the time. 12:42 a.m. She’d taken a nap earlier when Zack had gone to his training session, and after a dinner that she’d barely been able to eat, Alexa had crawled into bed, completely worn out. She’d slept soundly until that damn nightmare. And now she was wide awake and, truth be told, a little hungry.
With a resigned sigh, she padded barefoot across the room to the door. Opening it, she paused for a second, listening. The house was dark and quiet. Peaceful. She knew there was leftover pizza in the fridge from the party, and her stomach rumbled encouragingly at the thought.
Stepping gently down the stairs, she emerged into the living room and was surprised to find that the main level wasn’t completely dark. A dim light glowed from the direction of the kitchen, and she took a few steps forward, wondering if Sierra or Sean was still up. Standing on the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, she froze at the sight of a wonderfully broad, deliciously muscled bare male back. Even in the dim light, she knew just from the outline of his shoulders and his hair that it was Zack. A tattooed series of Asian characters formed a line between his shoulder blades, and she wanted to trace those swooping lines with her fingers.
With her mouth.
Her lips and fingertips tingled at the thought, which she pushed gently away. She couldn’t let herself go there. A hint of the shame she’d felt during the dream came back, a shadowy whisper of guilt.
Sweatpants hung low on his hips, his abs flexing as he moved around the kitchen. Cut lines along his hips disappeared into his sweatpants, along with the trail of dark hair that started under his belly button and arrowed downward. His chest was strong and smooth, the muscles cut and defined, and once again her lips and fingertips tingled as warmth swirled over her skin. He apparently hadn’t seen her, and she watched as he tossed his phone down on the island and then opened the fridge, sticking his head inside. She noticed another tattoo, this one on the underside of his left bicep. About the size of her fist, it looked like a crescent moon emerging from behind clouds, but she couldn’t tell for sure. A tribal dragon, faded and more crudely drawn than the others, decorated his right shoulder.
He emerged with an orange in his hand, and as the door fell shut, he began peeling it, his strong, thick fingers working the peel free. The sharp scent of citrus cut the air. She inhaled, pulling the scent into her lungs, and he turned to look at her, his white teeth flashing as he started to smile.
“Alexa? Are you okay?” His voice was a little bit rusty. As she took a step toward him, his eyes dipped down her body, lingering on her breasts. She glanced down to find that her nipples had pebbled into hard nubs under her thin T-shirt.
From watching him. From staring at all that skin, all that muscle. The tattoos. His hands. The way he moved.
Every little thing about him.
She shook her head slightly, stepping farther into the kitchen. “I had a dream and couldn’t get back to sleep.” She tipped her head at the fridge, trying to ignore how suddenly hyperaware she was of the scrape of the fabric of her shirt against her hardened nipples. “Did you see any pizza in there?”
He set his orange down on the counter. “I sure did. You want a slice? You must be hungry. Didn’t eat much at dinner.”
She nodded, both surprised and touched he’d noticed that she’d barely touched her food earlier. “Please.”
He pulled the fridge open again. “You want to talk about it?” He pulled a container out. “The dream, not the pizza. You want it heated up?”
“No, cold is good.” She stepped up next to him and pried the lid off of the container, then pulled a slice free, taking a hearty bite. Zack slid the container back in the fridge and stood across the island from her, his hands braced on the granite. She couldn’t stop her eyes from doing a slow walk down his body, over each chiseled muscle, and something hot pulsed low in her stomach.
As she chewed she mulled over his question. Did she want to talk about the dream? Just thinking back to it had her on edge, a restless uncertainty crawling through her. Telling him about it would mean opening up about her past, not to mention revealing the quagmire of her feelings for and attraction to him. She could leave that stuff out, but then she’d be lying about the dream, and that wasn’t really the point of talking about it, was it?
She almost jumped when Zack’s knuckle brushed her temple. She’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t seen him move.
“I can hear you thinking from all the way over here.” Her eyes darted up, and he smiled crookedly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, I do. I’m just trying to figure out how to explain it. I’m still processing,” she hedged, because she found that, despite her reservations, she did want to talk about it. She didn’t want to carry it alone. Taking another bite of her pizza, she found she wasn’t nearly as hungry as she’d been a moment ago as she rolled the details of the dream—still fresh, still vivid—through her mind. She swallowed, and the food lodged uncomfortably in her chest. A surge of anxiety tore through her, and she grasped for something else to talk about. She pointed at his shoulder before she could stop herself. “Is there a story behind the dragon?”
He frowned and glanced down at his shoulder. “You mean the ugliest tattoo you’ve ever seen?”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No! That’s not what I meant.”
He laughed quietly, his brown eyes gleaming in the soft light. “I got it when I was eighteen. I thought it was badass, but I was too cheap to go to a good studio to get it done, so now I’m stuck with it.”
“You could get it covered up with something else, couldn’t you?”
He shrugged, muscles moving beneath his skin, and then shot her a smile. “So you admit it’s ugly.”
She bit her lip, a smile struggling to break free. “I…It’s not not ugly,” she teased, amazed that, given the nightmare she’d just had, she was smiling.
Zack’s mouth fell open in mock surprise, his eyes sparkling. “Hey, don’t make fun of Cliff. He’s sensitive about his looks.”
She started to laugh, but as the images from the dream flashed through her mind again, it died on her lips. She grabbed a paper towel from the counter and laid the piece of pizza down on the island, not sure if she was going to finish it. Gently, she pushed it away, and she noticed that her hand was trembling. Distantly, as though she were seeing herself through a fog, she knew she was on the verge of falling apart. Everything was just too much.
Zack must’ve noticed too, because he cursed quietly and came around the island. “Let’s sit down. Come on.” He laid a hand on the small of her back, and she relaxed into his touch, his warmth soaking through her thin shirt as he led her into the dark living room, the only light coming from the kitchen and the moon shining through the windows. The moonlight only heightened his chiseled features, deepening the shadows in the muscled grooves of his chest. It was the kind of chest women drooled over and men were jealous of. It was the kind of chest she wanted to touch and explore and claim in ways she had no right to want.
God, Zack. As they walked into the living room, an ache bloomed in her chest. A tangled snarl of longing and guilt and shame and lust and regret.
She shivered as he eased her down onto the same couch they’d sat on earlier that day, and he grabbed a throw from the nearby armchair, then wrapped the plush blanket around her shoulders before sitting down beside her. Tucking her legs up under her, she turned to face him, snuggling into the back of the couch.
“I’m not even sure where to start,” she said, her eyes meeting his in the semidarkness. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, and her eyes dropped to his gorgeously strong arms, wanting them around her instead of the blanket.
He reached out a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his thumb linger on her jaw for a second. His fingers still smelled like orange, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to smell that scent again without thinking of this moment. She closed her eyes for a second and pressed her cheek into his palm.
“You’re overwhelmed. Anyone would be. What was your dream about?”
Really, she should tell him everything so that he’d know exactly who she was and why he should stay away from her. Why she wasn’t worthy of his kindness. Why her own attraction to him was wrong.
She grabbed fistfuls of the blanket and stared at her hands, knowing she’d be unable to concentrate if she kept looking at him. “I was standing in the upstairs hallway at my parents’ house, and I was wearing a white gown. I heard laughter and gunshots, and I tried to run for the stairs, but it didn’t matter how hard I tried, they never got closer. Like the carpet was a treadmill or something. I found a room with—with my father. I think…maybe it was a memory I’d repressed.”
He traced the shell of her ear with his fingers, massaging her earlobe gently for a second. Something tight and sharp soared through her and settled between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, trying to stifle the growing ache there, but wanting more of his touch.
His fingers skimmed down her neck before he dropped his hand. “What happened?”
She swallowed and forced herself to continue. “He’d beaten a man, and his hands were all bloody. I saw myself as a kid, hiding in the corner. My dress changed from white to gray.” She swallowed again and kept going, glossing over another part of the dream, because, as much as she wanted to unburden herself, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud. “Morales was there, and my father said, ‘How could you?’ and my dress changed from gray to black. I ran, and the stairs disappeared, and I fell. As I was falling, my dress disintegrated around me.”
“And this is something you remember?”
She nodded. “I think so. It’s fuzzy, but I remember being in that room that I used to hide out in and watching…” She shook her head slowly. “Growing up in that house was really hard. It was lonely and scary. I felt so isolated, like there was no one I could talk to. No one who would keep me safe.” She glanced up and met his eyes, dark pools that she wanted to dive into and never surface from. “I think I’ve known for a long time that my father is a criminal. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and raised a hand as though he was going to touch her again, but then dropped it just as quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
She nodded, and, as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place, the significance of the dress dawned on her. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve always tried so hard to be the good daughter, to do whatever he wanted me to do, to please him, but I can’t be both a good person and the dutiful daughter he wants. I know that now.”
She took a shuddering breath as the truth washed over her and then another as panic started to mount, clawing at her insides and struggling to break free. Everything that had informed her sense of place in the world was gone, replaced with a nightmare. She closed her eyes, trying to center herself, and she felt the warm rasp of Zack’s palm on her cheek.
“I know this is a lot to try and figure out, but you’re still Alexa.” Something hot glowed in his eyes, and he moved a bit closer.
“And who is she?” she whispered, feeling hollow.
He pulled her into his arms, and she went willingly, wanting the comfort but unprepared for the perfection of his bare skin under her cheek as she laid her head on his chest. She wanted to melt into him, to lose herself in him, in his body, his warmth, his touch.
He adjusted the blanket, wrapping it around both of them. One arm held her tightly against him while the other stroked over her hair as she curled into him. A tremble coursed through her when he gently kissed the top of her head.
“The Alexa I know is sweet, and funny, and probably one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.”
The pain of wanting, and not being able to have, tightened her throat as he spoke.
“She’s smart, and she gives so much to the people around her. She’s brave.”
She snorted softly at that. “I don’t feel very brave right now.”
“You are. You were given a choice earlier today in the detective’s office, and you chose to do the right thing. The hard, scary, brave thing. You made that choice, and, although it cost you, you did what you felt was right. To me that’s bravery. That’s strength. That’s courage.”
“I feel like I’m betraying my family.” She slid her arms around his waist, snuggling in closer, wanting more of his comfort.
“I know it’s complicated, ba—” He cut himself off sharply before continuing. “Alexa. I know. But you don’t get to pick your family, and your father threatened to…” He trailed off and cleared his throat softly. “You’re doing the right thing.” He eased back slightly and tipped her face up. “The Alexa I know is beautiful, inside and out.” His lips brushed over her temple, and she closed her eyes as another tremble shivered through her. Words failed her as he brushed his lips over her temple again. All she managed was a soft, raspy moan.
“I know,” he whispered, tipping her chin up a bit higher so his mouth was close. Close enough that she could smell the citrus on his breath. His eyes found hers. She couldn’t read whatever was flickering through his mind, dark as it was in the room, but his entire body practically vibrated with tension.
“Zack.” She whispered his name, and she knew she didn’t want him to stop. Just those tiny touches felt so good, so right.
“I’m here.” He cupped her face with both hands and brushed her nose with his. “I’m here, and I’ll keep you safe, princess.” He dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers, the tiniest bit of contact. A warm, heavy throb settled between her legs, beating in time with her frantic heart. He brushed his lips over hers again, and then he froze. She held completely still, waiting, her heart sinking when he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead and eased her away. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Oh,” she whispered, disappointment curdling through her. She wanted to ask him why but also knew that maybe she didn’t want to know the answer.
“Sorry,” he said, pushing to his feet and heading for the stairs without a backward glance. She watched him go, knowing she had to. Knowing that as much as she wanted it, it was for the best. Knowing he’d likely gotten caught up in the moment and would regret almost kissing her in the morning.
It was what she deserved, and she tried with everything she had to cling to that idea as she climbed back into her bed and turned the light off. But alone, in the dark, she let herself imagine what it would be like to curl into his warmth, to feel the strength of his body around her as he sheltered her from everything. She’d never fall asleep in Zack’s arms, and it didn’t matter how close he’d just come to kissing her. The dream had frightened her, but it had also reminded her of who she was, and the pain she’d suffered at her father’s hands. Zack had dated her friend, and she shouldn’t cross that line. And what would he say if he knew the truth about who she was? If he knew that she was damaged?
A flicker of anger pushed up through her, not at her father and not at herself, but at the idea that because she wasn’t “pure,” she was damaged. It was so deeply ingrained in her, in society, that for the longest time she hadn’t even questioned it. She’d swallowed the garbage society had fed her, subconsciously buying into the fucked-up idea that women could be only whores or virgins. As though her worth were tied to her sexual experience somehow.
She didn’t want to see herself as damaged. She didn’t want to define herself by her past. All she wanted was to find a way out of this murky situation.
And Zack. She wanted Zack. Despite the myriad reasons she shouldn’t—he was Taylor’s ex, she was his client, and she had a lot of personal shit to work through—she did.
She let herself go back to imagining his arms around her and fell into a deep sleep.