8. Eight

Eight

I slam the car door behind me, letting out a frustrated cry. I don't want to be around him when he's like this. Bulldozing his way through. Being his stubborn, pig-headed self.

I barely notice the night concierge as I push open the door and stomp upstairs to the apartment. I don't look back to see if Art's following me. I don't give a fuck. I'm furious.

I sling my keys onto the hall table and head into the bedroom, angrily throwing my handbag onto the floor and flinging his jacket off my shoulders. I head into the en suite. The sight of my pale skin and watery eyes in the mirror stops me in my tracks. I look like I've seen a ghost. In some ways, I have.

The sound of the front door slamming shut echoes through the apartment. I steel myself for the inevitable showdown .

"Don't ever do that again." Art appears in the doorway, looking incensed. "From now on, no more working late. We arrive and leave work together. You're not going anywhere on your own."

I roll my eyes at his predictable demands and push past him into the bedroom. I knew he'd react like this. "I don't need a fucking chaperone."

He tears his black shirt off, balls it up, and flings it across the room in anger. "You're not going anywhere on your own with that fucking psychopath on the loose."

I fix him a stern look. "You're the one acting like a psychopath."

His jaw twitches with tension as he steps out of his trousers and underwear and stands completely naked. "I mean it, Sophie." He glares at me, turns, and heads into the en suite. "I need a shower."

"To wash another man's blood off you," I cry.

He reappears in the doorway, a frown etched across his face. "Jamie was going to rape you. Did you expect me to let him get away with it?"

I shake my head in frustration. He doesn't get it.

"What you did was too much. If Big Steve hadn't dragged you off him …" I trail off. I know exactly what would have happened.

"I was protecting you."

"Protecting me doesn't mean killing someone," I snap.

"Did you think I was just going to give him a slap on the wrist?"

"It's not the way. Kicking the shit out of Theo isn't the way either."

"Then, we'd better agree to disagree."

"No, I won't. I don't like what I saw tonight. I've seen you angry, I've seen you punch someone, but I've never seen you like that. You totally lost it. You scared me."

He drops his eyes to the floor in regret. "I'm sorry I scared you. I didn't want that. I'll never hurt you, Sophie. I'll never lay a finger on you … "

He's missing the point .

"I know you won't. I'm not scared of you. I'm scared of the damage you're capable of doing to someone when you're in that mindset. You were so focussed on hurting him."

He angrily shakes his head. I know I'm in a losing battle.

"I hurt him because of what he'd done to you and what he was going to do to you. I don't regret it. I'm not going to apologise for protecting you, and I'm never going to stop."

If that's him protecting me, I don't want to know. "I didn't like the man I saw tonight. I can't …" I pause as the events of the night crystallise. "I can't be with someone who would do that."

"Then, we've got a problem because that's me. And I'm not going to change."

He doesn't understand where I'm coming from, and I doubt he ever will. He can't see that this reckless, violent streak of his is unacceptable. I can't be with a man like that. And I can't be around him right now. No amount of talking will make him understand. He's right; we've got a problem—a very big problem. I'm drawing my line in the sand.

I slip off my engagement ring and put it on the bedside table.

He stands perfectly still, glaring at the ring for a few seconds. For a moment, I think he's going to say something, but he doesn't. He turns and stalks into the en suite, slamming the door behind him.

The odour of cigarettes and lager assaults me. I snap open my eyes to be greeted by darkness. Pain slices through me down below, and an ice-cold hand grabs the back of my neck and rams my face into the pillow.

Not again.

He's on top of me, trapping me beneath him as he carries on with drunken, haphazard thrusts. I twist my face to the side and suck in a lungful of air, telling myself not to panic. But it's no use. I open my mouth and cry out into the darkness as fear rises in my chest. I close my eyes and try to conjure my happy place, but it won't come. His thrusts are getting harder and angrier, and the sting between my legs tells me I'm bleeding again.

I'm trapped. With nowhere to go. And I scream Art's name.

Warm skin replaces cold hands. I smell a freshly showered scent instead of the repugnant stench of cigarettes and alcohol. I'm not pinned down anymore. I'm sitting up in the spare bed with a pair of strong arms wrapped around me and soft lips pressed against my forehead.

Reality dawns in the darkness of the bedroom. Another nightmare.

I relax against Art and close my eyes as my frantic breathing starts to slow. He waits for a few moments until I calm, shifts the covers off me, slides an arm beneath my knees, and wraps his other around my back, lifting me to his chest.

I rest my head against the curve of his neck as he carries me through the apartment, and I don't argue when he lays me down in bed and tucks me in. He climbs into bed behind me. I feel his warm body against mine, and he curls an arm around my waist. I close my eyes, safe in the knowledge that he's here.