I stop raking my fingers through my hair when the creak of a door sounds through my ears. My spine snaps straight as a hiss rolls up my chest in warning to my intruder. I really hope my guest isn’t one of the many rodents I’ve heard scuttling in the bushes the past six hours.

After being forced to sleep with Dexter, I never expected to wake up alone. I was so taken aback, I searched the cabin top to bottom. There wasn’t much floor space to explore, but my examination was thorough enough to gobble up an hour of my time.

Not a shred of evidence was found to corroborate my claims I escaped Meadow Fields with Dexter. Even the blood-soaked shirt I left on the floor last night was gone. The vacant cabin left me with nothing but confusion and a mismatched set of lingerie.

I also have my pill bottle, but with the water from the bathroom tap as sludgy as my heart, I skipped my third dose in a row. Perhaps that’s the reason I don’t feel guilty for sleeping with Dexter? I can’t be expected to apologize for something I was forced to do.

But in all honesty, even if I weren’t coerced, I still don’t believe Nick deserves an apology. He slept in Jenni’s bed multiple times during our relationship, yet I still found it in my heart to forgive him, so why can’t he do the same thing for me? Additionally, I like what Dexter and I did last night. He didn’t hurt me; his big, protective body curled around mine made me feel safe and protected—like he’d never let anything happen to me.

It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt safe. It was around the age of six or seven. With every year in a mental hospital the equivalent of five in the real world, it’s also been an extremely long time since I’ve slept like a baby. I doubt I slept like one even when I was one.

Gratitude for a restful night’s sleep flies out the window when I discover the cause of the creak. Dexter is entering the cabin. His sneer is as muddy as his sludge-covered boots. I don’t know why he is glowering at me. I’m not as presentable as I was yesterday, but for what I lack in glam, his cabin certainly makes up for.

Despite my moodiness, I’ve spent the past five hours cleaning. On the outside, the cabin is still rundown and dated, but its insides are sparkling like the shiners my dad inflicted on my cheeks monthly. It’s not as pretty as the country estate where I grew up, but it is a hell of a lot better than it was.

I wouldn’t say I’m anal about cleanliness; it just saves my sanity. It was a tedious task to get this cabin presentable, but it was a great distraction from my depraved thoughts. Not all my deliberations centered around my dad and Nick. Many included Dexter as well.

When Dexter stalks across the room, I watch him through a sheet of hair fallen in my face. He isn’t wearing the same clothes he had on last night. His blood-stained shirt has been swapped for a light gray undershirt and a black leather jacket. A pair of dark jeans hides the enticing visual I spent half my night striving to ignore. With his nearly black hair combed away from his face, his defined cheekbones are mesmerizing, and his blue eyes pop right off his face. He looks appealing in a sleek, bad boy type of way. Actually, come to think of it, he reminds me a lot of Noah, the lead singer of Nick’s band.

After dumping a handful of bags onto the now glistening two-seater dinette table, he pivots around to face me. The panicked skitter my heart got when he arrived breaks into a sprint when his eyes land on mine. They’re carrying the same hunger they held last night, but something in them has changed. They are less murky, like he’s pleased to see me. I shouldn’t be tickled pink by the idea, but I am.

“Ugh!” I grunt when he seizes my wrist in a firm grip to yank me to my feet. I’m not angry at him. I’m more confused than anything.

When I woke alone, I was fuming mad, but the bags he arrived with reveal his time away was well spent. I just wish he had left a note, or better yet, taken me with him. I guess that would have been hard to do since he shredded my dress to beyond an inch of recognition.

A dusting of dark hair falls into Dexter’s bright blue eye when he slants his head to the side. “Miss me?” he asks, his tone facetious.

I shouldn’t nod, but I do. I did miss him. I don’t know why, but lying won’t alter the facts.

Dexter blinks two times as if stunned by my reply. Was he expecting me to say no?

With the smile of an evil man, he replies, “Then how about I fix the injustice?”

Not giving me the chance to seek clarification, his hands drop to the elastic of my panties. A daring gleam in his eyes makes me slap his chest before witnessing the consequence of my resistance. I get in three good whacks before a flash of silver stops me. Dexter has flipped opened a switchblade razor. Even without it touching any part of my body, I know from experience how sharp it is, ensuring my compliance.

Dexter protects my skin from being nicked by the razor before dragging the blade down the cotton maintaining my modesty. The material falls away from my body even more freely than my dress did last night. My bra is removed just as swiftly.

Both items puddle at my feet, giving me more freedom than I expected. I thought I’d be fuming with anger, but all I am feeling is euphoria. That probably has something to do with the look Dexter is giving me. I’ve never been awarded a look like this before. It’s an odd stare, like he equally detests and loves me.

He’s most likely mirroring the image I am giving him, because right now, I’m torn between wanting to slap him and kiss him.

What?

My eyes stray to Dexter’s bags of goodies, hoping he purchased water during his visit to the store. If I don’t take my medication soon, I’ll start believing the ideas in my head are logical and that I should act on them. I like that my mind isn’t as woozy as it’s been the past decade, but the thoughts I am having can’t be sane. I’ve only ever cared for two people in my life. Both betrayed me. I can’t open myself up to the carnage a third time. I’ve barely survived the past five years. I doubt my heart can sustain more injuries.

Dexter’s eyes stop absorbing my body when they land on my sandal-covered feet. My shoes are modest—thank god. After my effort last night, the blisters on my feet are the size of a small country, so imagine the massacre if I had worn fancy heels?

With a mocking roll of his eyes, Dexter returns his slit gaze to mine. “You need to shower. You smell.”

His comment knocks the wind from my lungs. From the pleasant glint in his eyes, I was anticipating a compliment, not a scolding.

When Dexter pushes off his feet, I gather my undergarments in my hand, drop them into the trash can, then follow after him. By the time I stop at his side, he has removed two pairs of panties—if you can call these mere scraps of material panties—a plain white shirt and a three-pack of socks from a Nordstrom bag.

I lift my eyes from the clothing to him, wordlessly asking if they are mine. When he nods, I snatch them up and hold them to my chest, hoping to maintain a semblance of modesty.

“I don’t know if this is the right stuff, but it smelled like you, so I figured it would do.” He dumps my favorite duo of hair products onto the stack of clothes I’m balancing.

Even naked and unsure what the hell is happening, I can’t stop my smile from stretching across my face. He’s pretending he is mad, but it’s all an act. The fact he sniffed shampoo to match it with my scent reveals his cranky demeanor is a ploy. He likes me; he is just confused as to why.

He’s not the only one who is confused. The instant he handed me bottles of fruity shampoo, my desire to kiss him overtook my wish to slap him.

I’m drawn from my wicked thoughts when Dexter says my name. I’m not talking the standard name every doctor in the state has called me the past five years. I’m talking about my Christian name—the one I was given at birth. He called me Megan.

“It is Megan, isn’t it?” Dexter confirms, unsure if my gapped mouth stems from confusion or shock.

Tears blur my vision as I nod. I argued with the doctors for months that my name wasn’t Claudia, but no matter how many times I told them Megan wasn’t “a figment of my imagination” or “one of my multiple personalities,” they never believed me.

I stare into Dexter’s eyes, praying he will see the words I can’t express. My name is Megan Shroud. I am twenty-eight years old. Before I was put to sleep by a scary man with large hands, I resided in a small, rural town over four hundred miles from my true love. I didn’t do the things the doctors said I did. I’ve done other things—many terrible things—but I’m a good person. Well, I was. Now I’m not so sure. The thoughts I’ve had about you the past few weeks can’t be healthy, but it’s better than not having any feelings at all.

In an uncharacteristic way, Dexter curls his hand around my quivering jaw to clear away the moisture slipping down my face. My cheeks burn in shame when I stupidily nuzzle into his embrace. Something flares brightly in his eyes. I don’t know him well enough to identify what it is.

“Would you like me to call you Megan?”

To ensure I don’t lose his touch, I faintly nod.

“Okay. I can do that for you.” His voice is higher than normal, kind of husky.

The unidentifiable spark in his eyes gains intensity when he drags his thumb along my lower lip. The look on his face is foreign, but it rips a fire through my mind, burning up everything I thought was true and leaving nothing but ash in its place.

“Do you want me to kiss you, Megan?”

His velvety tone seduces me so well, I nod without thinking. My heart skids to a stop when his soft and inviting mouth inches toward mine. I should pull away. I should grunt for him to stop. But all I do is remain frozen, in a trance, somewhat excited, somewhat scared.

My last thought is appropriate when our kiss ends up nothing like I expected. Dexter doesn’t devour my mouth in slow, tantalizing licks and sucks. He sinks his teeth into my lower lip, biting it so painfully, blood tingles my taste buds.

Before I can register the shock of being bitten—not just the callousness behind it but the flooding of warmth it caused between my legs—Dexter swipes his purchases off the table, arches me over the wobbly material, spreads my feet to the width of my shoulders with a tap of his boots, then places a firm whack on my ungodly region.

Now I understand why my daddy said vaginas are the reason women turn into whores. Dexter’s slap was painful but in an erotic, I can’t help but meow like a kitty way.

“Don’t ever look at me like you did, Megan. Do you understand? If you ever look at me like that again, I’ll do more than punish you with my hands. I’m the monster hiding in the shadows. The bad man waiting for you in the alley. The reason fathers lock away their daughters. I am not a man you glance at with adoration!”

He slaps the aching slit between my legs another four times, his strikes gaining intensity with each blow. “This is just a taste of what you’ll get if you ever look at me like that again. I am not your savior, Megan. I’m your worst nightmare!”

After a final whack, he returns me to a standing position, which is virtually impossible with how hard my legs are shaking. Sweat mists my nape when my wide-with-excitement eyes lock with his. That shouldn’t have been enjoyable, but it was. Very much so.

Dexter’s eyes narrow when he spots the thrill in mine. When a furious growl rumbles up his chest, I wipe the animated expression from my face in less than a nanosecond. Nothing can eradicate my inflamed cheeks. I’ve never been touched like that. I don’t mean the roughness of his caress. I mean where he touched me. Only one person has had their hands . . . down there. It was a doctor who wanted to confirm I was pregnant with Nick’s baby.

My mood shifts from happy to anguished faster than I can snap my fingers. I don’t know what that doctor did, but my baby with Nick was never born.

I stop tiptoeing into a dark and lonely place when Dexter says, “While you’re in the shower, take care of that.” His eyes drop to a patch of curly hairs spread across my genital region.

Confusion slashes my features when he shoves a canister of shaving cream into my chest. It is closely followed by the blade he used to undress me. He can’t be serious can he? Why would I shave my pubic hair? It wouldn’t grow there if it wasn’t meant to be there.

“Hurry up, Megan. We haven’t got all day,” Dexter barks when I remain standing at his side, silenced by stupidity. “The quicker you do this, the sooner you’ll see Nick.”

That’s all it takes to get my legs moving.

I race into the bathroom, my steps as spirited as my hope. It’s been years since I’ve seen Nick, but I’m confident the moment I lay my eyes on him, the stupid, irrational thoughts I’ve had about Dexter the past four weeks will vanish in an instant.

I hope.

Maybe.