Unveiled (Page 95)

But I do. I sit like a statue, immobilised by shock, only my eyes and mind functioning. My brain is relentlessly demanding I find a way to stop this – not just now, but stop it back then. He drops to his knees on the floor. I could be having an out-of-body experience. I can see myself standing to the side, screaming my anguish. Miller’s head is dropped, and I gasp when a man appears from the bottom corner, his back to the camera. I let out a sob when he grabs Miller by the throat. He looks well dressed, a black suit adorning his tall body, and though I can’t see his face, I know with perfect clarity what his facial expression is. Supremacy. Power. Arrogance in the worst possible way.

I continue to torture myself, telling myself that this is a breeze compared to what my love is enduring. The unknown man continues to hold Miller by the throat as he yanks at the belt of his trousers. I know what’s coming. ‘You bastard,’ I whisper, rising to my feet. He takes a hold of himself, shifts his other hand to Miller’s cheeks, and squeezes until he’s forced to open his mouth. Then he rams himself past Miller’s lips and begins to thrust like a deranged madman. I bite my lip as I watch Miller, my strong, powerful man, being violated in the worst possible way. It goes on and on and on. No amount of my tears and gut-wrenching sobs stop the hideousness playing out before me. My stomach turns when the stranger’s head drops back a little and he slows down, circling into Miller’s mouth like it’s so very normal, my tummy twisting further when I actually see Miller swallow. Then like nothing has happened, the guy zips up, pushes Miller roughly to the side, and strolls out.

Every scrap of breath leaves my lungs on a quiet whimper as I watch Miller lie motionless on the floor, not a whistle of his mental state clear. His cautious approach to me taking him in my mouth and his violent reaction when he woke to me pleasuring him in New York is so clear now. I’m shaking with rage, sadness, every emotion possible, and it’s all for him. I sniffle and sniff, willing him to get up and leave. ‘Run away,’ I beg. ‘Leave.’

But he doesn’t. Not for the longest time. He only moves when another man appears from the same place as man number one. He’s back on his knees. ‘No!’ I yell, watching the new man stalk slowly forward, again in a suit. ‘No, Miller, please!’ The man follows the same string of sickening movements as the previous guy, except this one strokes Miller’s cheek. My hand is back over my mouth, holding back the nausea. He starts to undo his trousers. ‘No!’ I swing around, searching for the remote control. I can’t watch any more. My hands work like demons, throwing pillow after pillow across the room. ‘Where are you?’ I yell, beginning to sweat – a mixture of exhaustion and desperation to kill what’s playing out on the screen behind me. I pull up and scan the floor, spotting it under the table. Dropping to my knees, I grab it and swing around, aiming it at the television, but my finger doesn’t stab at the stop button. It just hovers above it, twitching as my wide eyes watch Miller’s hands come from behind his back and yank his blindfold from his head.

I choke and heart palpitations send me falling back to my arse. His eyes are revealed. They’re hollow. Empty. Dark.

Familiar.

The man staggers back in shock, frantically working at his trousers as Miller rises to his feet, danger coming from every naked pore. He said he killed a man. This man here. My arm goes limp, my finger relaxing as my hand falls to the floor. Now I really know what’s going to happen and I can’t even be sorry for the sadistic thrill I know I’m going to get from watching it play out. Miller in this footage may not be as physically lean and cut, but it would be foolish to underestimate the sheer violence radiating from him. He starts to stalk slowly forward, his face straight, no hint of anger evident at all. He looks completely composed. He’s a robot. A machine. He looks lethal.

I slowly stand, silently willing him on.

The guy’s hands come up in defence as every muscle on Miller’s body visibly engages, ready to pounce . . .

And then the screen goes blank.

I gasp, frantically stabbing at the play button on the remote control. That can’t be it! I need to see him hurt him. I need to see him get revenge. ‘Play, damn it!’ I yell, but after a lifetime of punching the button, nothing happens. ‘Fuck you!’ I scream, hurling the remote control across the room with brute force. I don’t even flinch when it smashes against the front of one of Miller’s paintings, shattering the glass sheet protecting the canvas. I whirl around, heaving and shaking. I feel cheated. ‘Miller,’ I exhale, bolting across his flat and running like an unhinged nut down the corridor towards his studio.

Bursting through the door clumsily, I pull to a halt and search him out. He’s sitting on the edge of his old worn couch, elbows braced on his knees, his face in his palms. But shocked wide blue eyes are revealed quickly. I see life in them. Light and energy, none of which were there in that footage, and none of which were there when we first met. It’s all evolved since we’ve found each other, and I’d rather walk the fiery depths of hell than see it all lost. A painful sob fights past my anger and I start running to him, only vaguely registering him standing through my blurry vision.

‘Olivia?’ He starts forward tentatively, frowning. He’s shocked I’m still here.

I launch myself into his arms. Our naked bodies crash together hard, and would probably hurt if there wasn’t another agony consuming every nerve ending. ‘I’m so fascinated by you,’ I sob, constricting him around the neck, melding myself to him.