Page 11 of Love What's Left
Barefoot, she moves to the center of the room. I stay where I am and keep my voice low. “Do you remember me?”
“My name is Sydney Walsh McRae. I don’t know anything else,” she rasps in a voice she hasn’t used in more than a week.
I nod, though my chest aches and my sinuses sting with thwarted hope. “I’m Gabriel McRae.”
She recoils, then darts for the bedroom door, wobbling precariously, holding on to furniture, doorframes, and walls as she goes. I follow, but slowly, to avoid giving the impression I’m chasing her. Five seconds later, I abandon subtlety and sprint toward the crash that occurs out of my eyesight.
Rounding the corner, I leap over the massive vase of flowers she either knocked off the hall table accidentally or hurled off deliberately. She runs deeper into our 6000-square-foot penthouse. My heart pounds with fear when she slips on the polished hardwood and narrowly misses smacking her head off the interior exposed-brick wall.
She regains her balance and continues her flight. As she goes, she swipes up books, a lamp, candles, anything that catches her eye, and hurls them to the floor behind her. Rufus yowls and speeds away to hide.
Her head lifts, and she momentarily skids to a stop at the sight of the glass doors leading to our balcony.
“Do you want to go outside?” Anything to help her calm down sounds like a good idea to me.
Instead of walking around the furniture, she half falls and half climbs over the back of the brown Chesterfield sofa in her single-minded mission to get to those doors. My wife is acting like a zombie in a goddamn horror movie.
“Sydney, you’re not a prisoner. You don’t need to escape.”
She keeps moving, her eyes on those doors, and I stop fucking around. “Dave, get Granthy here, ASAP,” I bellow.
She jolts, then runs harder, her terrible physical condition making her progress slow and precarious, despite her desperation.
I put on a burst of speed and easily reach the doors before she does, then face her and work to sound calm. “It’s a sunny day. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Let’s go outside together.” I won’t stop her from exploring, but she could hurt herself if she’s confused.
Her eyes close to slits as she comes to a halt before me. “Rub some dirt on it.”
I’ve heard her say that phrase many times. She doesn’t allow herself to wallow in self-pity when something goes wrong, but what is the context here?
“This is your home.”
I open the door, and she steps onto the spacious balcony. I match her pace. She speeds up. So do I.
Sydney’s head turns on a swivel, taking in the tall courtyard-style walls that surround us on two sides and the chest-high glass barrier that extends the length of the space, offering safety without restricting the view of the Manhattan skyline. The pool, covered for the season, lies to our right.
Abruptly, she stops moving and shoots me a sidelong glance. Then she heads for the seating area around a gas firepit.
Stopping next to it, she turns only her head to face me.
A cool wind ruffles my hair and stings my skin. Her bare feet must be freezing. For the past week, I’ve clothed her in mostly T-shirt-style dresses. They were easiest for me to help her with hygiene, and most of her old clothing didn’t fit. Now, her nipples bead under the too-thin fabric and goose bumps cover her exposed arms.
“It’s a little chilly. Do you want me to light the fire? Or”—I raise the lid of an upholstered bench to reveal hidden storage—“we have blankets or the heaters.”
Sydney’s beautiful brown eyes turn sly, and my heart lifts at the familiar expression. That look usually comes before a quip or an inside joke only she and I understand.
Tentatively, so carefully, I offer my hand. “Yes?”
She steps closer and takes it in her left. I let out a grateful breath as my palm makes contact with hers. She tugs me closer. When she gestures for me to bend to her height, I lean down eagerly.
She plows her fist into my dick.
Pain sears through me in a breath-stealing spear of agony. Stars burst behind my eyes, and I double over. She may be weak, but a sucker punch doesn’t take strength.
I gag, nausea getting the best of me. If she thinks I’m Markov or someone like him, I can’t blame her for it. Definitely. Not. Ready. To. Congratulate. Her. Though.
Even my inner monologue speaks those words through gritted teeth.Holy fuck.
I lift my head in time to see her scurrying back toward the penthouse. She windmills to a stop at the sight of her bodyguard, Dave, standing in the doorway.
