But we weren’t on the same page. We weren’t even in the same book. I’d had a choice; lie or tell the truth, and I’d made the wrong call. The worst decision of my life had ricocheted for years, not only destroying Rafe but the lives of so many others. Maybe he could forgive me for it, make excuses for my reprehensible behavior, but I couldn’t forgive myself no matter how often he spanked me or demanded I let the guilt go. Nothing had the power to abolish this sense of culpability I carried around, and it was manifesting in my dreams.

The first night I dreamed of Zach’s tongue between my thighs, I thought I’d vomit all over Rafe as he slept at my side. How I managed to silence my disgusted sobs without waking him, I didn’t know. I’d toyed with the idea of telling him, especially when he gave me a certain look—like he knew something was wrong and I was keeping it from him.

“Why are you out here?” I asked.

“Couldn’t sleep. Too keyed up, I guess.”

I gulped. The fight was tomorrow. A few hours ago, he’d received a text alerting him to keep an eye out for another text disclosing the time and location. No wonder he couldn’t sleep. No wonder I was having bad dreams.

We were living in a real life nightmare.

He rose slowly, and his bare feet padded across the space. He set two gentle hands on my shoulders. So gentle, yet those fingers could wield crushing strength around my throat, were immovable when they held my chin in place during a lecture.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, studying my face. If I told him nothing was wrong, he’d know. This was it—the moment I’d known was coming. He was about to force my hand.

But I wanted to be open with him. I wanted to be able to tell him anything and everything, the way I expected him to. Fair was fair.

“I…” Clearing my throat, I tried again, but nothing came out.

He frowned. “What do you need from me, babe? Tell me.”

“You know what I need. Don’t make me say it.”

“Not only are you gonna say it, but you’re gonna beg for it.” He lowered his face, hungry lips lingering close.

Too close.

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss him, or bend over and offer him my ass.

“Hurt me,” I whispered. “Please, Rafe. Hurt me in a way that makes me feel good.”

“Get on your knees,” he said, his palms applying pressure to my shoulders. Allowing my knees to buckle, I lowered to my haunches. The floor welcomed me with unbearable hardness. I squirmed, spread my thighs, and clasped my hands at my back, the way I knew he liked.