Storm Front by Monette Michaels Read Free Book Online Page B

her he’d never let anyone hurt her again. He’d kill anyone who tried.
    * * * *
    10:25 a.m.
    “Ohmygod, ohmygod.”
    Tessa, her vision blurred by tears, her knees weakened by shock, managed to make it to her room without falling down the stairs or running into a wall.
    Closing the door, she leaned against it for several seconds in an attempt to catch her breath. She was breathing so rapidly she was in danger of hyperventilating.
    In. Out. In. Out.
    She counted slowly through the mental exercise her therapist had taught her to control the panic attacks. After several seconds, she’d regained a semblance of control and could think again and not act like a frightened animal.
    This wasn’t the time to lose control.
    When she’d awakened in her bed shortly after ten o’clock, she’d been pissed. She’d gotten up. And what had begun as a simple trip to the kitchen to retrieve her laptop, to ream Earl a new asshole for taking it, had turned into a scene from one of her more recent nightmares—the one in which people she respected, loved, discovered the revolting and degrading truth about her past.
    God, they knew. Theyknewtheyknewtheyknew. They’d seen.
    Con … cen … trate, Tessa. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
    She moaned deep in her throat. The techniques weren’t working. Sickening heat swept over her. Her stomach heaved. She covered her mouth and, on shaky legs, barely made it to the attached bathroom. Dropping to the floor by the toilet, she lost the oatmeal and juice she’d had for breakfast. After a minute of debilitating vomiting, she sank back on her butt and then leaned against the wall, thankful for the support since she’d lost all use of her muscles.
    Tweeter, Evan, Chad … Earl. They’d viewed what those people had done to her during her five years of sexual slavery. Seen the depraved acts that had taken her years of therapy to shove to the far recesses of her mind. The acts that, in recent weeks, had been thrust back to the forefront by her cyberstalker.
    God, who was her tormentor? How had he obtained the images? Once again, she’d been reduced to an object to be used and abused. It was bad enough for her to relive the memories, feel the pain anew at seeing the images of her degradation, but for others to see?—ah, God … no.
    Tessa shuddered, choked, then retched air and liquid into the toilet bowl until she thought she might die. At the moment, she wanted to die … just lie down on the cold tile floor and expire. Then she wouldn’t have to think or worry about any of it ever again. Wasn’t there peace in death? Infinite peace and no pain.
    But she couldn’t die … refused to die.
    She hadn’t died all those years ago. She wouldn’t give in now. But she also couldn’t face any of the people downstairs—not yet. Maybe, not ever again.
    She’d have to leave. Today. Now. This instant. Go back to Chicago and retrench.
    While Evan and Chad had known the basics of what had happened to her all those years ago, had sat through therapy sessions with her, they’d never seen or known the extent. She had purposely left some of the more horrific acts out of her sessions, acts depicted in the videos and images on her laptop.
    She felt dirty and worthless all over again.
    None of it is or was your fault. The people who know and care for you will understand.
    Maybe … but she didn’t want their sympathy or pity.
    It’s called compassion.
    Same difference.
    Tessa…
    Shut up!
    Tessa struggled to her feet, using the wall to brace herself as the world spun crazily around her for several seconds. When things settled down, she walked a few short steps to the sink. At the vanity, she picked up a wash cloth and scrubbed her face with cold water, then rinsed her mouth out. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and cringed. It was the face from her past, the face of the weak, helpless creature she’d been during the five years in the hell the Branhams had created.
    You survived. The Branhams didn’t.