Page 49 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
I fight to remain rational when I want just to act blindly. Love is the enemy of reason, and for once, I don’t care. But I know that just as my love for her skews my judgment, so will her love for Gabriella. I worry that she’ll do something stupid. Act rashly.
I don’t have much time.
15
Adelina
I wake in what looks like the same room I spent so many weeks confined to. There’s a second, one blissful moment where I forget. Then I remember—Gabriella is dead. It all comes rushing back in, and I can almost feel my mind imploding on itself in a bid for self-preservation. My eyes sting with tears as an indescribable feeling consumes me. It’s like I’m being crushed, my lungs struggling to draw air until each breath feels impossible. My father’s death was my fault, but I was unaware of it. I lead Gabriella here, like a lamb to slaughter. My path was so entwined with Enrique’s that she was always going to get hurt. Her lifeless eyes flash through my mind, and I close my eyes, only to see nothing but blood. I choke on sobs, clutching at my chest as a very real and physical pain feels like it’s digging a hole in my heart.
I’ve never felt more alone in this world than I do in this moment. I’ve spent weeks forcing down my emotions: my grief over my father, Sasha’s betrayal, Daddy’s betrayal. I pushed it all down so I could get to Enrique. And now it’s like a dam has burst, and I’m drowning, sucking in lungfuls of dark, poisonous water.
And so, I lie there, on the bed, in clothes stained with my sister’s blood, unable to move, paralyzed by unbearable loss. I want to close my eyes and never wake up. Anything…just to make it stop. But I can’t.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It could be days or a week. I don’t know. There’s a knock at the door, but my unfocused gaze remains fixed on the wall directly ahead. I’m so emotionally and physically exhausted; even moving my eyes takes effort. I just want to exist here, until I slip into nothingness. Darkness is my sole companion now, my grief so deep and bottomless that I can’t seem to climb out of this cavernous pit. I have lost all sense of myself and my basic needs.
The door opens, and someone cuts into my line of sight; again, I don’t focus on them.
“Enrique wants to see you,” a man’s voice says.
The thought of seeing Enrique…I feel sick.
“You need to shower.
My arm is grabbed, and I’m roughly hauled into an upright position before being forcibly pulled from the bed. The man bends at the knees, throwing me over his shoulder.
“Stop.” My voice is weak and raspy.
He walks into the bathroom and dumps me in the shower stall. “Wash yourself, or I will do it for you.”
At this point, I no longer have the capacity for humiliation. Simply functioning is a chore. I’m not ready to see Enrique. I don’t have the strength to act in front of him, to pretend to do anything but hate him.
“Fine.” The guy steps forward and tears my shirt straight down the middle, scattering buttons everywhere.
I’m still covered in my sister’s blood, and the water that cascades across the floor is a rusted, dirty brown. Part of me doesn’t want to wash it away because then…then it’ll be as though she never existed. I finally look up at the man. He’s young, not much older than me. I expect to see a lecherous smile on his face; instead, he looks…disturbed, guilty even.
“You can leave,” I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the sound of water pounding on the tile.
He spares me one last glance that almost looks like concern. “I’ll be in the hall.” Then he leaves, and I slump to the floor, wishing the water would just drown me.
I drag myself through a shower, washing the blood and dirt away, but I’ll never feel clean. My hands are stained with Gabriella’s blood, figuratively and literally. I cry for the first time in days, my tears dissipating amongst the spray. When I finally drag myself from the shower, I dress in a tank top and leggings. I towel dry my hair a little but don’t brush it. When I open the door, the man’s eyes sweep over me, his brows pulling together.
“At least you don’t look like a murder victim now,” he mumbles.
I wonder if he even knows whose blood I was coated in or if he’s just clueless.
When he turns away, I follow him wordlessly, each step exhausting. By the time I’m standing outside Enrique’s office, I want nothing more than to crawl back into that bed and pretend that nothing outside of it exists. My escort knocks, and there’s a muffled shout from inside before he pushes open the door, holding it for me.
