By now, I'm a total mess, unable to do anything but nod my head. Time returns to normal and I feel faint.
He starts taking off his clothes, throwing piece after piece against the wall, his trench, his jacket, his tie, his shirt, ripping at them, his movements rough. When he reaches for my clothes, I hit at him, refusing to let this happen regardless of his anger.
"Stop! You said you weren't a rapist!"
"Ilied."
Then he seems to regain control and just lies on top of me, one of his hands holding mine over my head, his knee between my legs, his ragged breath in my ear.
We remain in this position for a few minutes, his breath slowing, but he doesn't move off me. Gradually, his grip on my hands lessens, the pressure of his knee between my thighs slacks off. He rubs his nose against my neck, presses his lips beneath my ear.
"I need you, Eve," he whispers, his breath on my skin. His mouth moves lower; he presses his tongue on his bite mark. "Once you taste a human, you want them. Once you feed them your blood, you want them even more."
He inhales again, rubbing his face in my hair. He rises up and looks in my eyes, and he's so much like Michel, but so much not like him. His scar is a thin silvery line on his cheek beside his hairline. His hair is shorter. But everything else is Michel – the thick black eyelashes fringing clear blue eyes. The square jaw, the soft lips. Dark brows, which are now furrowed. I see the determination in his eyes, the anger mixed with lust. It's almost overwhelming, his body on mine, his weight, his hardness, his blue eyes so intense.
He leans down to kiss me. I turn my face away.
His whole body stiffens. I can almost feel the anger radiating off him.
"What is wrong with you?" He grabs my chin and turns my face back to him. I close my eyes. "You want me. Iknowyou do. Your body's ready."
I just close my eyes.
"Look at me."
I refuse.
"You had sex with Michel."
"I wanted him," I say and close my eyes. "I don't want you."
"You want me, Eve. Just give in."
I struggle beneath him, flailing around as much as I can. Finally, he releases me.
"What's wrong with you? I can't see it. It's blocked."
He takes my hands and examines them – I've done it again. Dug my nails into my palms.
"Damn," he says. "What happened to you to make you this way?"
I roll away from him, my stomach clenching, stomach contents rising in my throat.
"My first foster father raped me. That's what's wrong with me."
I roll off the bed and onto the floor, then drag myself to the small bathroom, to vomit in the toilet.
He holds my head, pulling my long hair back so it doesn't get wet. I retch and retch until there's nothing left. He doesn't say anything, just hands me a tissue so I can wipe off my mouth. I lie down on the bathroom floor, the tile cool against my flushed cheeks. He kneels down and just looks at me while I recover.
"How old were you?" he says quietly. I don't respond, unable to speak. He touches my foot, rubs it. "How old?"
I shake my head, take in a deep breath. "Eleven."
He doesn't say anything, just kneels beside me, a hand on my foot. The memories are too much and I get up, push my way past Julien, who for once seems immobilized. I go to his coat, which is discarded on the floor. I search through his pockets. I feel such a frantic need. I need to find a blade. I need to have one, now. I find one, a long switchblade with an ebony handle and hide it in my sleeve.
He comes to the doorway. "What are you doing?"
I scramble past him into the bathroom and shut the door before he can enter, locking it, knowing how futile it is, but I do it anyway. I remove my blouse, climb onto the vanity, my back to the mirror, and flip open the knife, the blade long and sharp and polished.