And I lost myself. The heat flared up in my midsection, twisting inside me, lancing down between my thighs and up, into my lungs and into my heart until I could only cling to him.
Then I felt him pressing something into my palm. His other hand, the one that held the object. And I saw that it was a long, thin rod of iron, and on the end of it was a letter: T. His letter.
His brand.
"Take it, Ms. Shaw." He breathed the words into my hair.
My hand closed around the rod. I knew what he wanted, and I knew that I would do it. My heart beat wildly out of control.
Mr. Thorne kissed me again, urgently, and I stuck the end into the coal. I threw back my head as his kisses moved lower, across my neck, to the collar of the tee shirt. His free hand skimmed over my body, up from my thigh, under the shirt, and then he was pulling it off over my head. I was naked in front of him, but I was too hungry to be ashamed.
He said, "It is time."
He stepped back, and I kept my eyes fixed on him, rejoicing as I reached for the end of the iron rod. The brand was glowing red from the blistering coals.
I knew what he wanted. His eyes filled my world. I grasped the rod of the brand as close to the heated end as I could bear. I turned it toward me, toward my naked flesh, shivering in terror and desire.
And he didn't even have to ask.
I pressed the brand against my abdomen, and the stench of the burning flesh filled my nostrils as the terrible, glorious agony of it swept over me-
And my own scream woke me.
I was sitting up in bed, the blankets kicked off onto the floor, the alarm of my phone blaring at full volume. Still panting and shuddering with reaction, I groped for the off button, and then I scrubbed my face with the heels of my hands.
Thursday. It was the Thursday before finals-exactly two weeks after I had seen Mr. Thorne at Komi.
No wonder I was having nightmares.
I took a breath and lurched into the bathroom. A shower chased away the last of the dream, leaving me with a clearer head.
Decision time.
Dammit, I'd made my decision. I'd made it two weeks ago-before that, even, back at Johns Hopkins, when I'd chosen the mysterious card over the hospice brochure.
I glared at my thin body in the mirror, glared at the ravages the cancer had done upon it. My hip bones protruded, stark and angry, my ribs an ugly line of bars, my cheeks sunken and eyes hollow. I was going to take the leap of faith. Even if I landed on crumbling ground, I already knew the bridge I stood on now was doomed.