I want Damien—I need him. But he’s not here, and I’m so goddamn lost.

My chest aches from gasping—from trying to catch a breath through the body-wracking sobs. I need something—no, not something. I need pain. Release.

I need to cut.

Just one simple swipe of a blade to release the storm that is raging inside me. Nothing more than steel against skin. Just a quick flick and it would be done. Just one cut. Just one clean line of blood.

It would be enough.

And it would be so easy. So very easy.

I’m breathing calmer now, and I climb to my feet, then go over to the library-style ladder. I move it down the rail to the corner, then climb to the top. There’s a decorative hat box in the back corner, and I draw it to me, then carefully climb down and put the box on the floor.

I kneel beside it, then yank off the top. The box is full of memorabilia, and I paw through it, looking for the small leather case of antique scalpels I’d tucked away here. Not because I ever thought I would need it, but as a reminder that I had the strength to never touch it again.

But I don’t have the strength. I’m not strong at all.

It’s there, the brown leather smooth from handling. I take it out and hold it in my palm, imagining the gleaming blades. The way the sharp instruments will twinkle like fairies in the dim light of this closet. And the way the cool steel will feel against my too-hot flesh. The release. That sharp, exquisite pain that can conquer the raging inside me.

Slowly, I unzip the case and stare at those perfect, beautiful blades.

I can do this.

I need to do this.

I want it to do this. I want it, dammit. I want it, I want it, I want it.

Except I don’t.

What I want is Damien, and with a scream of frustration so raw it hurts my throat, I hurl the scalpel set across the closet. The still-open case thuds against the wall by the open door, jarring the instruments from their compartments and scattering them across the floor.

I start to lunge for them, then force myself back with a fierce cry of, “No.”

And then I curl up by the granite island, press my forehead to my knees, and cry.

I’m still on the floor when I feel Damien’s hands on my back, then gripping my waist. “Did you cut?” He turns me over and then runs his hands down my legs, his movements crisp, his eyes full of purpose. “Dammit, Nikki, the floor is littered with blades. Did you cut?”

“No.” I choke the word out. “I wanted to—I think I meant to—but no. No, I swear, no.”

He pulls me violently to him, then presses kisses to my lips, my face, my hair. He cradles me hard against his chest, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. “Nikki, oh, God, Nikki. I came home. The door was open, and the box for that damn crib was right there. Then I saw the shattered wine glass, the shards everywhere. I couldn’t find you, baby. Christ, it took forever to find you.”

His voice breaks, and he bends his head so that his forehead is pressed against mine. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, baby. I’m so, so sorry.”

I don’t realize that I’ve started crying again until I try to speak and choke on my own tears. I give up and just cling to him, letting the tears flow as he rocks me.

“I thought I was better,” I say when I can finally squeeze out words. “I thought I was healing. I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .” I shake my head and try again. “I don’t know what happened. I saw the box, and I just—” A wet sob breaks out of me, and I shudder, then look down, feeling stupidly ashamed.

“No,” he says, tilting my head up. “Tell me.”

I meet his eyes and see my own pain reflected there.

“It’s more than just losing the baby,” I whisper. “It’s that I probably can’t ever have one.”

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, the word holding so much pain I fear I’m going to start crying again.

“We lost more than a child, Damien. We lost the possibility of one. It’s like I lost us the future. Our future.”

“No,” he says firmly. “Sweetheart, no.”

“I thought I was healing,” I tell him again. “But I don’t know how to move forward. I can’t,” I say as fresh tears trickle down my cheeks. “I can’t do this without you.”

“Baby, I’m right here.”

“No. No,” I repeat, and this time my voice comes out strong, fueled by the same sadness and frustration that pushes me to my feet. “You’re not here,” I say. “But dammit, Damien, you need to be. You’re just as ripped up as I am, don’t you see that?”

I pace the length of the closet, my heart pounding in my chest. “You went after Tanner. You’re beating the shit out of that punching bag downstairs. You’re hurting and you’re finding relief everywhere you can—but not with me, Damien.” My voice breaks. “Not with me.”

He looks at me, and as he rises to his feet, I see a new kind of pain behind his eyes. A pain of recognition. Of regret. “Nikki—”

But I’m not done. “You’re treating me with kid gloves,” I say. “But dammit, you know what I need. And you need it, too. But you’re denying us both because you’re treating me like some fragile fucking thing. But I’m not fragile—I’m strong. You’re the one who’s always telling me so. But I’m strong with you, Damien. Without you I break. Without you, I’m that,” I say, pointing to the scalpels on the floor.

“Please,” I beg. “Don’t hold back. Don’t turn away from us. You see me so clearly. You always have. So don’t pretend you don’t understand. Help me,” I beg, my words tumbling out like a waterfall, wild and rough. “Help me be strong, and you—”

But I don’t finish, because he’s pushing me back, slamming me against the rack of clothes, his hands tight around my upper arms, and his mouth attacking mine with such fervor that our teeth clash and I taste blood.

“Is this what you need?” he asks, breaking away long enough to tug the sash from my silk robe that hangs just a few feet to his right. “For me to take you hard? To fuck you? To use you? Do you want feel the sting of my palm against your ass? Do you want me to tie you down so that there’s no escape? So that you have to feel everything? Pleasure, pain, unrelenting and unforgiving?”