At the open bathroom door.
Or right in the corner of the room.
Right here. Watching me.
He was always coming.
Or…
Maybe I never left. His words came back to me.
When he was in prison, he was here. When I wanted to want other men, he was here. When I danced, when I cried, whenever I was alone, and when I was quiet in a room full of people and thinking about him, he was here.
The truth was, I’d had what Michael and Rika had. I thought I had anyway. Those days were when I was the happiest. Even though it was a lie, it was the best I’d ever felt.
Damon.
It was useless to close the door. My fight wasn’t enough.
He couldn’t be contained. I had to let go.
I stood up, kicked off my shoes, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, letting it drop to the floor. I didn’t lick my lips even though they were dry or barely breathed even though I was starved to.
Calm and slow, as if my brain was floating high above my head, and I was watching myself from above, I removed my bra and unbuttoned my jeans, letting both fall, as well, and hooked my fingers under the hem of my panties, pausing.
No creaks. No footsteps. No door opening or closing.
But I felt him.
The cool October air caressed my skin, making the flesh of my nipples pebble and harden, and I only hesitated another moment before I pushed them down my legs.
Stepping into the water, I lowered myself, an inch of water underneath me and immediately making chills spread across my skin with the utter warmth. I almost groaned.
Closing my eyes again, I hugged my knees to me as the water ran, steam billowed around me, and my toes curled in the water.
The heat coursed through my body, settling my muscles and nerves, and making my limbs feel like anchors. I didn’t want to move, and I didn’t have the will to care right now.
Hurt me. You still won’t win.
No creaks. No footsteps. No doors.
Nothing.
What did he see when he watched me?
His enemy? Or something he wanted?
Was I someone to torment or something to play with? Did he know the difference?
Did he want me to like it?
What did he see?
I spaced off, feeling the hairs on my arms stand up and my skin harden like armor as I felt him, and anger and violence swirled in my gut, because I wanted to tear at him and hurt him and prove to him that I wasn’t scared yet.
That I was going fucking mad, but I wasn’t a baby.
What would he see when he looked at me right now?