HauntingBeauty







Chapter Thirty-three


AT first, it was only surprise that hit Danni. Gripped by a cold numbness, she stared at the door, uncaring that the shower still spat its warm stream, that she stood naked and exposed in the draft. Then a voice that seemed at once inside and out began to whisper, Who does he think he is? How dare he talk to you that way? Hurt him. Hurt him.
The voice lit a wick of anger, and it hissed with a life of its own. It burned its way from her head to her feet, moving her before her brain had a chance to register the enormity of its blaze.
She twisted the knob on the shower, grabbed a towel, and stalked dripping wet out of the bathroom. Bean scurried to get out of her way, but Sean stood in the kitchen, unaware of the storm that approached. Danni was shaking, her entire body trembling with the waves of indignation. She tried to speak. Tried to spit out the vehemence locked in her throat. But her rage was too great. How dare he treat you that way? How dare he make demands that he had no right—no ability to back up? The voice fanned the flames. He’s dead for God’s sake. Not the kind of man you’ d want for a husband anyway.
There was a heavy glass ashtray on the coffee table. She scooped it up and threw it at him.
The weighted glass slammed against the cupboard beside him and clattered to the floor without shattering. He spun around, but his look of shock only incensed her more. The voice applauded her efforts and provoked her to try again.
“What? You expected me to just take it? Sweet little Danni, too nice to fight back after she’s manhandled in the shower? Do you think because of last night you can touch me whenever you want? I am not yours. Not now. Not ever.”
The shouted words felt like balm against her injured pride and battered emotions. If she said it loud enough, repeated it enough times, maybe it would be true. With an angry tightening of her towel, she stomped to the curtained bedroom. But Sean had recovered from his surprise and was there, blocking her way.
“What?” she demanded. “You want to see if you can get a leash on me? Chain me to the bed?”
The idea of it obviously appealed to him, and the ghost of a smile pulled his mouth before he had the good sense to stop it. But it was enough. The nagging voice in her head demanded she slap that smug look away. Danni had been through too much in the past few days. Her emotions had been pushed and pulled, tattered and torn. Refashioned into something she didn’t recognize, someone whose reactions she could no longer control. She raised her hand to strike, but he caught it before the satisfying connection could be made.
Her other hand swung and he caught that, too, stepping her back against the wall, restraining her wrists and pinning her body. Her towel fell away in a damp puddle at her feet, leaving her naked and exposed yet again.

Hurt him, hurt him, HURT HIM, the voice shouted, and suddenly she recognized it. That voice wasn’t coming from inside her head. It was the Book. Christ, it was the Book.
She was breathing hard—deep, ragged breaths that burned her throat and rushed in her ears. Sean was, too. She realized the Book must be taunting him as well, driving them both into a frenzy of emotions that neither of them understood.
She felt his chest heave up to meet her own. The contact burned, soothed, threw her already chaotic feelings into a dizzying plunge. He stared into her eyes, holding her captive with the stormy sea she saw within him. She wanted to look away, but there was so much more beneath his stare than anger. There was hurt. Desperation. Agony. She saw that he was as battered, as bereft and confused and tormented as her. That he understood even less of his own reactions than she did. But like herself, he’d turned all that churning emotion into anger, something that could be thrown. Something that could find a mark, find a purpose. His eyes narrowed, and she heard a whisper in the stifled air.

Who was she with, she’s a liar, who was she with?

The words revolved around them, unheard but felt. Danni clenched her eyes tight, furious now with herself for bringing the cursed thing here. What was she thinking? That it would be safe in a drawer? She’d been warned repeatedly about it, but she hadn’t heeded the danger. And here it was manipulating them both.

Hurt him, hurt him, hurt—


Enough. The word became action, a net she cast around the voice. She felt the rebellion, the resistance, and she tightened her thoughts, drawing in the corners, fighting its evil power like her life depended on it. In her mind, she stuffed that voice into a dark corner, sealed it up with a stone wall. Trapped it in a prison it couldn’t escape. It shrieked in rage, but for now, its poisonous cries were contained, muffled and insignificant, behind her barrier.
It was a temporary fix, but it held. Her mind cleared and with it went the rage. The inexplicable need to hurt this man she loved.
And she hadn’t even touched it yet . . .
As she watched, Sean’s eyes cleared as well, leaving him bewildered. Shame colored the green and made them shimmer.
It seemed he would speak, a quick intake of breath, his tongue moistening his lips. She was afraid of what he would say, afraid of what he wouldn’t. There wasn’t time for explanations. There was only here, now, the moments before she had to remove the indescribable darkness and evil of the Book from the drawer she’d foolishly placed it in and take it back to the cavern. Touch it.
Sean continued to stare into her eyes, deeply, beseechingly, hungrily. And she understood that the fire that was melting her heart and soul burned within him as well. There was no way out of this inferno.
She leaned forward, fighting the hands that still held her wrists and pressed her mouth to his in a hard, hungry kiss. It staggered him, amazed him, and the power of it flooded her veins. He didn’t know whether to respond or rebuke, and that pleased her, too. She took his choice away, using teeth and tongue to tease and provoke. The sound he made was fuel to her ecstatic blaze. He groaned deep in his throat, and then his hands were cupping her face, long fingers digging into her scalp. Making her feel him.
She responded in like, tugging at his wet shirt, tearing it from his shoulders. He released her just long enough to cooperate. Then her fingers were digging into the hard muscles of his chest and arms, pulling him into the scorching furnace of emotion and desire.
He fumbled with his pants, trying to hold onto her and work them free at the same time. She ground her hips against him, hindering and encouraging with equal measures. At last he had them open and she shoved them down as he grabbed her hips and jerked her up to meet him.
He was hard and engorged, and he plunged himself into her without tenderness or finesse. There was nothing gentle, nothing loving about it, and it might have hurt had she not been ready and waiting. Had it not been what she’d waited for, what she wanted. She needed to feel with every sense she possessed, needed to embrace the pain and the glory of these moments which could be their last. She arched her back, wrapping her legs around his waist as her head thumped the wall.
She pressed her mouth to his, stealing his breath, taking from him everything she could. She left him defenseless, slave to his own driving need and her demanding mouth. He held her in place as he pumped relentlessly, brutally. Each time he buried himself in her then withdrew to do it again, she felt the rising inside her, the violent building and clenching. The suicidal height and intensity that increased with each fierce thrust.
And then it came, that dizzying moment just before everything inside her turned liquid and molten in an explosion of heat and hurt and pleasure. She felt like a torch, bright in the blackest night, hissing and burning and illuminated. An instant later he came with her, shouting her name as he drove himself deep, deep inside her, letting loose the rage and fear, letting it meet and tangle with her own. Letting their combined heat incinerate the crazy violence that impelled them both to this dangerous edge.
She felt the tension in him leave, her own following willingly. He turned his face to the hollow of her throat and tenderly kissed her neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. I wanted it.”
He looked up, seeing the truth in her eyes, understanding that she’d felt the same consuming passion, the same driving need to seize tight and to ward off. To hold on and to let go. Then he was moving away from the wall, still holding her, still connected. She wrapped her arms and legs more tightly around him and held on as he lowered her to the bed.