"I have to go back. He'll come get me anyway. You don't under-"
"You are not going back to that house. It isn't safe, and now that I know what that asshole does to you, if I see him again I will kill him. You've been through a lot, Jasmine. Try to get some more sleep."
With that, he stands up and light streams into the room as the door opens briefly, the latch clicking as it closes softly behind him. I take a deep shaky breath.
I'm not going back?
He wants me to leave Dylan? What would I do? I've been with him for so long that the thought of being alone is terrifying. I'm not stupid. I know I wasn't safe with him. I just . . .
I don't know what I will do without him.
I lie back in the bed, the soft cotton of the sheet cool against my burning skin. I try to fall asleep but so many thoughts are racing through my head, I know there is no way I will. This isn't going to work the way Cutter thinks it will. He might think that he can save me, but he can't. He doesn't realize that I caused what happened to me.
It's my fault.
Sunlight peeks through the slats in the blinds. I think of all the times in the past where I've wanted to stay in bed for fear of doing more damage to my body, but remind myself that that's just my mind's way of justifying lazy behavior. The effort it takes to swing my legs over the edge of the bed leaves me lightheaded and I have to grasp the bedside table to keep myself from falling.
My eyes drop to the bedsheet and I'm mortified to see streaks of dried blood everywhere. I twist my body, biting my sore lip to keep from crying out as I begin to pull the cover off, searing fiery heat pulsating around the split as I slowly inch the dirty sheets off the bed, bundling them up against my chest. My brow is soaked with sweat and as I move toward the door a sharp pain lances through my skull, colorful spots dancing in front of my eyes. I feel every inch the beaten wife, my misdemeanors on display for everyone to see, and for me to remember. With each jarring step across the room the pain intensifies, my muscles quivering with the effort of keeping me upright, blackness encroaching on my vision as I fight to remain conscious.
Taking a deep breath, I stand up once more holding onto the bed frame for support. I make my way to the door and see the laundry room right across from me. I place the dirty sheets in the washer and add some detergent before going out into the living room. My feet take small careful steps, each one increasing my anxiety. I have to convince Cutter to let me go. The longer I stay, the more danger both of us are in.
The worn carpet of the hallway leads me out into a bright living space, where I find Cutter pacing back and forth, a phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. When he sees me his brow furrows in confusion.
He nods toward a beaten up but comfortable looking leather couch and I make my way over and sit down. He holds up two fingers and then flattens his palm before leaving the room. After a couple minutes, he reappears in front of me.
"Why aren't you sleeping? You need to rest."
My words catch in my throat. I don't know what I'm supposed to say. What if I say the wrong thing? I know my limits and what to expect with Dylan, but Cutter is a complete unknown.
"I couldn't fall back asleep," I whisper, so low that when he doesn't immediately answer, I question if he heard me.
When his rough hand cups my cheek, my first instinct is to pull away. Soft touches like this are usually followed by a knock or a fall. I look up at him, pulling myself inward, making myself as small as possible.
"I have to go to the clubhouse. It won't be more than a few hours, but I want you to stay here. Make yourself at home. I'll be back soon." He waits for a moment to make sure I've heard him. I nod once. The things I need to say to him can wait for him to do whatever he needs to.
He's halfway to the door when he turns back to me and his mouth opens as if he's about to say something. I wait, drawing shallow breaths in through my nose. It's the only way to keep my lungs from burning. To stop the knives that attack my ribs with each inhale.
The sound of the door closing reverberates all around me and Cutter is gone.
I'm alone.
In his house.
Will Dylan find me here? A part of me feels like he will show up any minute and make me pay for this. Fear seizes every inch of my body as his face invades my mind. I move slowly around the room, closing the blinds, locking the door behind Cutter, turning and slowly sliding down the solid frame until my legs are tucked up underneath me.
From this angle I'm able to see parts of the room. I don't know what I expected of Cutter, but the place is extraordinarily neat. DVDs are stacked in a bookcase which matches the entertainment unit and the coffee table. The remotes for the huge television have their place on the armrest of the recliner, and the throw pillows on the couch match the blanket folded up on the ottoman.