Leaning over, I brushed my lips beneath her ear, inhaled a scent that sparked a memory my stubborn mind believed took place just a few months ago, when I’d held her as she cried over her mother’s death. Even grief smelled good on her.

She twisted her head and pressed her mouth to mine. Breath stalled in my lungs, and the need to pin her to the bed nearly outweighed my sense of decency. Whatever my head didn’t remember, being this close to her, our mouths moving together in hunger, the taste of her rioting through me, revived something primal inside my being.

A snarling beast that wanted to claim.

I tore my lips from hers. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I stumbled across the room and wrenched the door open, and a heavy weight pressed on my chest, urging me to get the fuck out of there while I still could.

Her gut-splitting wails haunted me down the hall, long after I shut the door.

14. Psychoanalysis - Alex

14. PSYCHOANALYSIS - ALEX

“How are you sleeping, Alexandra?”

I sat in one corner of the shrink’s couch, feet curled under me. Feigning indifference, I shrugged.  “Same.” I’d left the hospital eleven days ago. The first few had been pure hell while my mind and body adjusted to going without a daily dose of ecstasy. I’d barely left my bed, despite feeling restless and unable to sleep much. Every part of me hurt, from the pieces of my fractured heart to the deep ache in my muscles.

“Still having nightmares?”

“Uh-huh.”

Sandra crossed her legs. “Do you want to talk about them?”

I shook my head. I still had a difficult time addressing her by her first name, but she’d insisted. This was my second visit and I didn’t want to be there, but my father made it clear I didn’t have a choice. The hospital discharged me under his care, especially after I fed his bullshit to the police. My years of lying had worked in my favor; they’d bought the story.

Alexandra De Luca had suffered an episodic break, just like her mother. With shame, I remembered how I’d confessed to pushing my car into the river before hiding out at a cabin I’d heard my brother talk about. I’d even confessed to carving Zach’s name into my stomach.

There were holes in my story, of course. Like how I’d arrived at the cabin, or how someone just happened to find me in time to call 9-1-1. They accused me of withholding information, of protecting an accomplice in my disappearance. But ultimately, they believed what my father wanted them to, and because of my warped version of the truth that didn’t point the finger at anyone other than myself, Zach was safe from prosecution. So was Rafe.