Out in the hallway, Deforest yanked aggressively at the collar of his black shirt, popping the top two buttons. His skin was flushed, radiating an unnatural heat.
Zane, his business partner, gripped Deforest's bicep, trying to keep him upright. "You just woke from a coma, Deforest. Chugging half a bottle of whiskey at the club was a terrible idea."
The alcohol was reacting violently with the heavy sedatives still lingering in Deforest's bloodstream. His vision blurred, the edges of the hallway doubling and overlapping. His head pounded with a vicious, rhythmic ache.
Deforest shoved Zane's hand away. He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a sleek, metal hotel black card.
He slapped the card against the sensor of room 1802.
The card reader flashed green. A long, high-pitched beep sounded. A heavy clunk sounded from the door as the master override electronically retracted the deadbolt. Deforest shoved his heavy shoulder violently against the wood, his brute force snapping the secondary security latch right off its hinges.
Deforest pushed the heavy wooden door open. He stumbled over the threshold into the pitch-black suite.
"Just sleep it off, man," Zane called out from the hallway, pulling the door shut behind Deforest.
The heavy door clicked shut. The suite plunged into total, suffocating darkness.
Behind the bathroom door, Danielle's heart hammered against her ribs. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sharp, metal eyebrow razor. She gripped it tightly, the cold metal biting into her palm.
In the living room, Deforest took a heavy step forward. His foot caught the edge of a heavy armchair. He let out a low, painful grunt, his knee buckling slightly.
He navigated purely by instinct, moving toward the bedroom. The heavy scent of expensive whiskey rolled off him in waves, filling the stagnant air of the suite.
Danielle peeked through the crack in the bathroom door. The ambient light from the city outside cast a faint glow. The man stumbling through the room was massive. Broad shoulders, towering height. This was absolutely not Warren, the short, overweight investor.
Danielle held her breath, her muscles coiled tight.
Deforest felt his blood boiling. The drug interaction was frying his nervous system. He couldn't think. He couldn't see straight.
He grabbed the hem of his shirt and ripped it over his head, throwing it blindly into the dark. He crashed onto the edge of the massive king-sized bed, groaning as he fell back against the mattress.
Danielle waited a full minute. The man on the bed didn't move. His breathing was heavy and ragged.
She pushed the bathroom door open an inch at a time. She stepped out barefoot, her toes sinking into the thick carpet. She moved silently toward the front door, keeping her eyes locked on the bed.
As she passed the nightstand, the fabric of her loose sweater caught the edge of a tall glass vase.
The vase tipped over. It hit the floor with a sharp, shattering crash.
The man on the bed moved with terrifying speed. Deforest lunged through the dark like a predator. His large hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around Danielle's ankle like a steel vice.
Danielle gasped, losing her balance. She pitched forward, crashing hard onto the soft mattress.
Before she could scramble away, Deforest flipped her over. He pinned her down, his heavy, burning chest pressing flush against her back.
Danielle thrashed wildly. She twisted her wrist, bringing the sharp eyebrow razor up to slash at him.
Deforest felt the movement. He caught her wrist mid-air. He squeezed her bones until she gasped in pain, easily prying the razor from her fingers and tossing it across the room.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck to hold her down. As he inhaled, the faint, sweet scent of vanilla filled his lungs.
The scent triggered a massive hallucination in his drug-addled brain. He pressed his nose against her neck, inhaling deeply. "Anya... you smell just like Anya," he muttered against her skin, his voice thick with a desperate, sick obsession, tying her vanilla scent to a ghost from his past.
Danielle froze. The deep, gravelly vibration of his voice sent a shockwave of pure terror down her spine. She knew that voice. It was her husband. The man who was supposed to be in a coma.
The shock paralyzed her. Her muscles went completely slack.
Deforest took her stillness for surrender. His mouth crashed down on her neck, his teeth scraping against her collarbone.
The alcohol and the drugs completely stripped away his control. In the pitch-black room, the two of them tangled together in the sheets, driven by chaos and a terrifying, unstoppable force.
