Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

Why was it so hard to remember that whatever he made
me feel had been a lie, too?
The haunted house. The fantastical fear. The pulse in my
veins.
But then I remembered his strong arms around me.
I loved the danger. The way he brought me to life.
My fingers rested on my stomach, against the sliver of skin
where my shirt rode up, and I glided my hand along it,
throbbing between my thighs as my nipples poked through my
shirt.
Tears burned my eyes. I hated myself.
Because I wanted him.
He lied so well, didn’t he? That I wanted to feel everything
he convinced me of when he was in my bed when I was
sixteen.
A tear fell, but I tried not to cry. I wanted to feel him again.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let him win.
I heard a heard a car pull up outside, the door open and
slam shut, and then the door downstairs slam.
I froze, the pulse pumping in my neck as I listened.
Footfalls on the stairs.
A creak in the floors.
The slow whine in the floorboards getting closer, and I
heard Mikhail whine.
I closed my eyes. No.
He jiggled my door handle. When it didn’t give, because it
was locked, he did it harder.
The door still didn’t open.
Everything was quiet for a moment, and I clutched the
sheet at my sides, waiting, and then…
The door was kicked in.