Forbidden (Blood Ties #7)

Pain filled me, the sting more brutal than anything I’d ever felt in my life. This was why I wouldn’t get involved with men. This was why…tears threatened to blur the asshole in front of me. I fixed my gaze on the door instead. This was why I shouldn’t have stepped out into that fucking street in the rain.

This was all the weather’s fault.

If I’d only listened to my gut.

I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be anywhere near here.

I’d be at home, playing them at a safe distance.

Not here, cuffed to a fucking heater with my heart…what about your heart? Don’t tell me you’re in fucking love?I closed my eyes and unleashed a moan.

Jesus Christ.

I was in love.

Maybe not in love.

But it was something.

Something that made me feel…wounded.

Thomas stepped closer, looming over me. I glared back at him, holding his stare. His right eye was bloody, pierced only by the dark brown pupil fixed on me. I winced at the sight, taking in the mess of his mouth, knowing what I saw was nothing compared to the rest of him.

I looked away.

“Don’t,” he croaked, taking another step closer. “I want you to look at me. I want you to see what that bastard did.”

Another step.

“You were there, weren’t you? At the church and later at the warehouse.”

I fixed my gaze on the dresser.

“WEREN’T YOU!”

I jumped, jerking my gaze back to the insanity in that gruesome stare.

“You were there,” he repeated.

“Yes.” There. I’d said it. I’d told him what he wanted to know. “I was there.”

Only he didn’t leave, he dropped to his knees and grabbed my jaw, clenching tight with cruel fingers. “Did you enjoy watching him torture me?”

I jerked my face from his grasp. Anger and pain filled me. But he wasn’t done, digging in his fingers as he grabbed me again.

“Well?”he barked.“Did. You. Enjoy. It?”

“YES!”I roared, that knot-like pain radiating through my chest. “Yes, Ienjoyedit.”

He stilled, harsh, savage breaths surging between us. Fire exploded in the middle of my chest. His grip tightened until I couldn’t breathe. I thrashed, yanking my hands until the cuffs bit. But under the desperation, rage seethed.

“Fire,” I wheezed.

He scowled, released his hold, and shifted his weight, moving closer. “What?”

“Fire,” I gasped. “I can still smell your hair burning when he shoved you onto the flames.”

That memory burst into my mind. The smell of the fire. The sound of his screams. More than that, the pure rage that had been London St. James.