The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 23

There was a time, after Harper had changed me, when I had wished for this moment more than anything else.

If someone had said 'you can have five minutes of your life back, just five minutes and then back to reality', I would have chosen this. I would have chosen the chance to be wrapped in Brandon's embrace. I would have grovelled at his feet if need be and begged his forgiveness if it meant just reliving a small taste of what it had been like when we were together like this. When I had stood outside my old house, staring mournfully through the window, I had yearned to see his face, yearned for his smile and most of all, yearned for his touch. Him, him, him.

What is it they say about being careful what you wish for?

Whirling me around, Brandon pushed me up against the dresser, forcing me to face that image of myself in the mirror. The bruises had faded quickly with just a few stubborn purple abrasions here and there; my hair although cleaner than it had been in a while was unkempt and tousled, my complexion pale and wan. I looked like I was wearing somebody else's dress and I guess, to all intent and purposes, I really was. I looked out of place in this gown, out of place in this setting, out of place with this life. It was all a masquerade.

As his mouth moved again to my shoulders and then down that wide expanse of bare skin on my back, following the path of my spine, I glared at my reflection. Angry, shameful spots of colour stained my cheeks and I gripped the edge of the dresser, my fingernails scratching the wood.

Brandon was already nuzzling at the small of my back, having sunk to his knees behind me, his hands clutching my hips as his mouth worked tirelessly on the soft skin left exposed by the backless gown. He ran his fingers down my legs and gripping the ankle-length skirt, he pushed the fabric back upwards until it was gathered around my thighs. A few agonising seconds passed and nothing happened. Nothing except the tremble of his hands against my legs and a few heavy exhales of breath. And then he went further, pushing the dress up over my behind and I screwed my eyes shut and bit down hard on my bottom lip, breaking through the skin and tasting blood.

When he pressed his mouth against the top of my thigh, just below the curve of my cheek, I flinched. I couldn't help it. The sensation of his lips against my skin verged on pain, like the searing touch of a hot brand on my flesh and when I felt the low rumble of a growl vibrate on my thigh, my eyes shot open, that all too familiar instinctive fear sending sharp poker jabs of heat into my bladder.

He stood up so suddenly, knocking into me as he did so as if he was unsteady on his feet and immediately I saw flecks of poisonous amber reflecting in his gaze as he looked over my shoulder and stared at me in the mirror, his eyes frantic and hungry. He buried his face in my neck, his dark curls falling over his face and tickling my shoulder as his hands reached round and grasped my breasts, cupping them firmly in his hot palms. His heart beat furiously against my back and we remained like that for a few uncomfortable, claustrophobic moments, locked desperately together.

I was free-falling. My control was loosening by the second and it was as if I were plummeting down, down, down, with nothing but some great gaping black maw opening up beneath me. Flailing desperately, I tried to grip onto something, anything that would break my fall, anything that would keep me from hurtling into those black depths of reality. Because reality was going to kill me. Giving into the fear was going to bring this whole masquerade crashing down around me and I couldn't let that happen.

I held tight to the only thing that would keep me alive. Memories.

His name is Brandon David Walden. His birthday is 3rd August. He takes one sugar in his coffee. He likes lazy Saturday lie-ins, his steak rare and his wine white and crisp. He prefers action films but a Richard Curtis flick is his guilty pleasure. Chooses dark chocolate over milk any day, arranges his tie collection in colour order, hates baths and loves showers. His first car was a Golf, his first crush was an older girl in primary school called Eloise and his first kiss was with Eloise's younger sister when they were both nine. His name is Brandon David Walden and he sleeps on the right and I sleep on the left.