My roar rebounds off the walls, but Jamie doesn’t flinch. Just sits there, the epitome of composure. But I know her tells, and I see she’s gripping her hands so tightly, the skin is white from the strain.
“David is my husband.”
Don’t do it. Do nothing you’ll regret.
Nope, can’t talk myself off the cliff.
I’ve earned the name Wraith for a reason.
Jamie doesn’t see my strike coming. By then, it’s too late. I already have her on her feet, with one hand clamped around her throat. I shove her until her back slams against the wall. The breath gets knocked out of her, and when I kick her legs apart and force myself between them, I feed off the fear that flashes across her face.
Good. I want the bitch scared.
I want her as scared as I am every time her fucking husband chains me in the torture room and uses me as his personal playground.
I bring my face in real close to hers and bare my teeth in a snarl. “Say it again. I fucking dare you.”
She doesn’t. Instead, she whispers, “I’m so sorry, Eric.”
The apology is a knife digging its way deeper in me. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to look at her without wanting to kill her for marrying that scumbag.
But I open my eyes anyway and crush her throat tighter. “Why?”
I don’t really want an answer because nothing she can say can ease the sting of betrayal.
But what I see is the damaged girl she was when we were teenagers. Who’d get teased because she had to dumpster dive for clothing. Who would rest her head on my shoulder and talk about going to England to visit medieval castles so she could see one of those walls she loves so much live and in person.
The girl who tasted of apples.
The only woman with the power to rip out my fucking heart.
My growl rumbles between us as I pull back my fist and let it fly into the concrete beside her head. Agony explodes up my arm as the skin over my knuckles splits. Bones shatter, the physical damage helping to regulate the pain splintering my brain.
I unclasp my hand from around her throat and stalk the claustrophobic width of the cell, trying to convince myself I don’t give a shit she’s married—or who her husband is. Yeah, not working. Nothing Crane’s done hurts as much as knowing Jamie is married to him.
Her gasp echoes around me. “What did you do?”
“Leave.” My voice is deceptively calm, the control I have on my temper slipping like sand through my fingers.
“Eric—”
“Don’t.” I cut her off, the barked word saturated in rage. I jab a finger at the door. “Get out.”
Apparently, she’s full of shitty decisions because she comes toward me instead of hitting the red button. “Please, Eric, let me explain.”
“Eric is dead,” I hiss. “My name is Wraith.” I stalk toward her, closing the distance between us in three long strides, and clamp my good hand around her upper arm. I drag her over to the bars, leaving drops of blood in our wake. “Get. The fuck. Out.”
Jamie, unflinching, stands her ground. “I need you to listen to me.”
“Because I give a shit what you need.” I release her arm with a shove, and she stumbles backward. What I should do is punch the wall again—and keep punching until I cause enough physical damage to numb what’s going on in my head. “Do us both a favor and go away, Jamie.”
But she’s still as stubborn as when we were kids. “Please let me explain.”
“What the fuck is there to explain? Look what that prick did to me.” I throw my arms wide to give her a good view of my battered body. “Give me one goddamn reason why I shouldn’t send you back to him in pieces to even the score.”
Jamie her back to the bars. She’s shivering, and it’s not from the cold. The dungeon is an oven because Crane doesn’t waste air-conditioning on the living dead.
“I am not my husband.”
