Chapter 41
LAUREL
Ryan produced a medium-sized box with a white ribbon and set it on the table where we’d just finished breakfast, although I’d hardly eaten. “Happy birthday.”
“What?”
“It’s your birthday today. Open it.”
I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid to expose the tissue paper inside. Beneath that, there were ballet slippers. Used ballet slippers. I pulled one out, confused.
“You dance professionally, but the doctor didn’t want you to go back to it too soon. Last time I gave these to you, you pushed it and made yourself sick.”
“I’m a ballet dancer?”
He nodded. “An amazing one. But you have to promise me you’ll take it easy.”
I put the shoe back in the box as I tried to find a way to be grateful, even though I hadn’t the faintest clue how to put it on. I gave him a polite smile. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Thanks.”
“There’s a room I didn’t show you on yesterday’s tour. Bring the box.”
It was a dance studio where one wall was all mirrors. It had hardwood floors, a ballet barre, and an upright piano in the corner. The room was beautiful, but the same feeling of nothingness possessed me as I set the box on the piano top.
“You don’t want to try them on?”
“Sure.” Because it was clear he wanted me to. I lifted the box’s lid, but he strode forward and grabbed my hands to stop me.
“You don’t have to.” He drew away hesitantly. “I don’t mean to push.”
“It’s fine.” Relief coasted through me. “I’ll try them on later. Thank you.”
“How about a kiss?”
My relief evaporated when he leaned in, and I held absolutely still as his lips grazed mine.
This was what I had written about in my journal last night. I didn’t dare put down on paper what I had been doing on the balcony, but it lingered in my thoughts, plaguing me. I wanted desperately to understand why I was so conflicted about this man.
Why I was filled with regret about the wedding I’d inadvertently suggested.
But when his lips were on mine and his hands on my body, I felt powerless. I let my arms fall to my sides when he pressed me against the mirrored wall, his mouth on mine, then hot on my neck.
I hated this feeling like I couldn’t get away, and it grew worse when he set his hand on the side of my thigh. It slid inward and began to creep up.
I couldn’t say no, but I had other words in my arsenal. “Ryan, wait.”
He lifted his head and gazed at me, a lustful one that set off every alarm in my damaged mind.
“I can’t help it. I want to touch you.”
I struggled to catch my breath. “I didn’t say you couldn’t touch me.”
“But when I do, it’s not enough. Is this enough for you?”
He did not give me a chance to respond. He plunged his tongue deep in my mouth at the same moment his hand slid between my legs.
His touch was shocking, and I gasped against his mouth.
It’s not enough, my subconscious agreed.
Because of the clash going on in my head, I didn’t stop him immediately, and his knee moved between my legs. It was agonizingly hot and uncomfortable trapped beneath him, and things spun out of control when his fingers found the top button on my shirt.
He undid it.
Then another.
My knees threatened to buckle as he focused on the next button and released it, my shirt hanging open.
“Wait.” Terror swept through me. “Wait.”
He raised his head, towering over me, and his brown eyes filled with confusion.
“Please let me go,” I begged.
Time slowed as he considered disregarding my plea, but then he released his hold. Cold air washed over me as he stepped back and let me pull my shirt closed.
“I have two voices in my head. One that’s telling me to stop,” I blurted, “and one telling me to keep going.”
He said it like he was being playful, but his expression was serious. “I’d be happy to give you advice on which one to listen to.”
There was something in his eyes that was so scary I couldn’t look at him another second. With my shirt still undone, I kept it closed with one hand and used the other to push open the door as I fled the studio.
In my panic, I ran headfirst into someone’s chest. It was a hardened wall of muscle, and I bounced off it.
“Plavko,” I gasped.
His gaze slid over my undone shirt, his face unchanged. “Everything is all right?”
“It’s fine,” I lied. “You surprised me.” Why was he always around?
He said nothing, offered no apology.
I sought shelter in my room, where I filled an entire page with words before there was a knock on my door.
“Are you okay?” Ryan’s voice was muffled through the door. “Can I come in?”
“It’s your house,” I bit out.
When the door swung open, he leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, and looked guilty as hell. “I’m sorry. It took a full three days before you let me kiss you last time. We’re well ahead of schedule, and I’m still being an impatient asshole.”
The same need I felt in the library crept in, destroying all other thought. “Can you be patient a few more days?”
His arms uncrossed and he straightened. “Yes, I can wait until we’re married. That’s what you’re saying, right?”
Well, shit. I nodded slowly, sure I’d just agreed to something horrible. He came toward me with purpose, a dark look of satisfaction on his face.
“That makes me want to reschedule my meeting and move up the wedding.”
My heart skipped with anxiety. “Don’t do that.”
For a whole variety of reasons, starting with the fact I had no idea who I was. Or what it was about him that made me want to give him everything.
Was it love?
And could I figure it out in the next three days?
“Will you miss me when I’m gone?” he asked.
“Since you’re, like, the only person I know? I don’t know, probably.”
His smile was sinful. “I’d like to kiss you now. This is your warning.”
The force driving me to him was immediate and strong, and I wasn’t sure how much more pressure I could take.
Dr. Vorbusch’s pen hovered over her pad of paper. “Did you write in your journal?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you find it helpful?”
I shrugged. No memories had surfaced since we’d last spoken, so I was anxious to start my session this afternoon.
“What did you write about?”
“Ryan, mostly,” I said. “How I feel conflicted around him.”
She lifted her gaze from the pad to focus on me, like this was unexpected. “Conflicted?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s, like, when we’re together, I don’t feel in control.”
There was worry in her voice. “You feel out of control?”
“I feel like someone else is in control. Maybe the woman I was.”
“But wouldn’t that be a good thing? Your mind pointing you in the right direction?”
“I suppose.”
The room shifted abruptly, and I blinked, disoriented. My mother was bleary-eyed on the couch, still in her clothes from last night even though it was now morning. Kara and I watched The Sound of Music, but she was less interested and kept glancing at our mother. The doorbell rang.
Just the sight of the police officer’s uniform through the glass pane in the front door sent my mother into hysterics.
Dr. Vorbusch was gone.
I blinked, slowly returning to reality in the library. I brushed a tear off my face, wanting to push away the sadness of the memory.
“Was it your father’s death?” Ryan’s voice startled me upright off the couch. He hovered in the doorway, watching and setting me on edge.
“Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Why was I so anxious to get my memories back again?
He had dinner brought in. I watched him devour his food and drink a glass of wine and listened to him talk about his work while I’d been in my session with Dr. Vorbusch. I didn’t touch a bite of my food. Just the smell of it made my stomach churn.
I wanted to ask about my past, but my head ached whenever a question began to form, and he seemed either oblivious or purposefully unwilling to share information with me. Frustration built to a level I couldn’t handle, and as soon as the meal was over, I shuffled to my room.
My body felt like it was made of lead.
Falling asleep had been easy, given how emotionally drained I felt. But sleep itself was not easy. I had a violent nightmare of being chased by an invisible gunman in a parking garage.
The dream wasn’t real, but the terror I felt when I woke? It was gripping, and sweat clung to my skin.
My subconscious issued an order I couldn’t disobey. Go to him. He will make you feel safe.
I climbed out of my bed like a robot carrying out the command. My bare feet were silent on the carpet outside the door to his room. Should I knock? I had no idea what I would say if he answered. Should I tell him about my nightmare?
No. I could be quiet. Maybe I could stay for a while, satisfy the voice in my head, and slip out without him knowing I had been there.
In the soft moonlight, there was the outline of his body on one side of the bed, covered only to the waist with the sheet.
Cautious steps carried me to the empty side, where I carefully grabbed the covers and slid beneath them.
I did my best not to disturb him, holding my breath, while his remained slow and steady.
Just when I thought I’d been successful, he burst into action.
He climbed on top of me, making a cry tear from my throat, but then his rough hands closed around my neck, and my scream gurgled into nothing.