Page 97 of Lethal Obsession

But right then Ofelia looks up at me, her eyes deep and cavernous, and suddenly, she’s all I see.

My knife hand slides up her naked thigh, higher and higher, my eye never leaving hers. Her breath halts, her eyes darkening to something so potent it feels like a palpable force surging between us.

I put my mouth to her ear.

“Trust me,” I breathe.

My hand is so close to the juncture of her thighs that I can feel the heat there. I turn the knife slowly, pressing the flat of the blade against the outer folds of her most intimate part, and her eyes flare with something that has nothing to do with fear. It sends an odd, dangerous thrill through me that I slam down like an iron door closing.

What the fuck, asshole?

Never once, in all the years Vilnus has used me as his mad dog, have I ever taken pleasure in the work he forces upon me. Never have I been anything less than utterly sickened by it.

And now here I am, lying atop an innocent child, thinking—what the fuck am I thinking, exactly?

Shaken to my core, it takes every ounce of self-discipline to refocus.

I know where I can cut for the least pain and the most blood. I know exactly where the shallow veins are and precisely how to cut to leave the barest scar.

And still, I can’t fucking stand to do it.

Ofelia stares at me, courage and resignation warring in her eyes in a way that breaks something deep inside of me.

I have to end this. Before I give myself away and end us both.

Bracing myself, I put my mouth near Ofelia’s ear.

“Scream,” I breathe.

As I force my hand to turn the point of the blade so it pricks her skin, a high-pitched shriek fills the room, one I know, with terrible certainty, will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.

I come back to the room with my fists clenched and my heart pounding.

The memory of that scream entwines with Ofelia’s playing, as if past and present are layered one over the other. The music soars to a crescendo, and somewhere inside, I finally understand what she’s trying to say.

More importantly, I understand what I need to say.

Neither of us moves until the last notes fade from beneath her fingers. The music is still resonating in the room like a living thing when I finally speak.

“What is that piece called?”

“It’s called ‘Nuvole Bianche.’” Her eyes settle on mine, the music still swirling in their depths. “By an Italian composer, Ludovico Einaudi.”

Nuvole Bianche. White Clouds.

Clouds of confusion, shape-shifting as we both pretend to make something normal that never, ever could be.

“You didn’t know if this was real.” It isn’t a question, and I don’t need the sudden flare in her eyes to know I’m right. “You never knew if I thought of you. If you’d see me. If this would happen.”

She nods silently, her eyes never leaving mine.

I stand up and cross the floor until I’m just on the other side of the piano. “You thought that this”—I gesture between us—“was all in your head.”

She nods again. I can feel the loneliness clinging to the last vestiges of the notes in the room, sense it in every cell in her body.

“Ofelia.” I hold her eyes across the piano. “I meant every word I said the other night, about wanting you. But there are things I didn’t say. Not because I don’t mean them, but because admitting them, even to myself, makes me the kind of man I would normally take my knife to.”

She watches me, barely breathing.