"Wake up, Grace."

I come to all at once and with a sudden rush of clarity that I haven't known in days. Every detail is immediate and sharp, as if I've slept for a hundred years and never need to rest again. But I'm not in the motel bed, and it isn't the week after St. Patrick's Day. It's Christmas night a few months ago, and the three of us are in my living room.

Just as we were that night, I'm on Murphy's lap, and that ridiculous kung fu movie is playing on the television. Connor and Rocco snore blissfully away next to us as Murphy reaches for a blanket to cover the two of us with. I remember this, every detail of how this scene plays out, but-

"This is wrong."

"Aye," Murphy answers, his lips ghosting over the bare skin of my shoulder and neck. "Know yer a bit squeamish 'bout puttin' on a show, but dose two won't wake up fer anyt'in'. We're fine, c'n cover up wit' t'blanket, if ye like."

"That's not what I mean," I protest pathetically. My body won't respond the way I want it to. I'm responding to Murphy's touches the way I did that night, sensations sweeping and overwhelming me as his fingers circle over and over, setting every nerve ending on fire.

And also on edge.

We shouldn't be here. This already happened, I know it did, but I'm…I'm awake, I know I am…I think…so, then, Rocco should be dead, but he's right there, snoring in my arm chair, and-

"Are ye awake, girl? Need ye t'wake up."

"I am awake!" I snap, my temper boiling over as I struggle internally to make some part of me behave as I want it to. Murphy doesn't respond, his mouth fastened to the back of my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh there. My arm moves of its own accord, slipping behind his head and pulling him closer.

I've got to fucking move! Maybe this whole thing has been one long nightmare since Christmas. I know what's going to happen, so maybe I can fix what went wrong; I don't have to go to New York. I can convince the guys not to go to McGinty's for St. Patrick's Day, I can keep them home that night, I can…I don't know, get Doc to…

"Goddammit, Murphy, let me up!"

Whether Murphy is ignoring me or simply can't hear me, the result is the same, and his hands begin their familiar path of seduction, one slipping down my belly to dip between my thighs while the other plucks lightly at my nipple, causing my entire body to shiver violently against him.

"Aye, girl, keep dat up."

"He can't hear ye," Connor says from my other side. Though my body is stuck in this perverted cycle, my head swivels to the side to find Connor not only awake and watching us, but exactly as he appeared in my dream the night of the bar fight. Rocco lies in my armchair still, but collapsed now, rather than reclined. Both of them are awash in blood and gore, and the gaping hole in Rocco's chest puts paid to anymore fantasies I have about somehow saving the day.

Even as Murphy's hands continue their work, and my senses go into overdrive, but I whip my head from side to side, refusing to accept my inability to do change anything. I have to force my body out of its grotesque caricature of lovemaking.

"It ain't dat he wants to ignore ye or hurt ye," Connor continues evenly, as if sitting blood-soaked on my sofa while watching Murphy and I make out is the most normal of activities. "He just ain't in his right mind. Yer gonna hafta knock some sense inta him. He's losin' himself t'th'grief, ye see."

"Need ye t'wake up fer me, Grace. Need ye…"

A deafening barrage of thunder jerks me out of the nightmare and back into an equally jarring conscious state. The room is pitch dark, though it's strangely lit by the frequent bursts of lightning that show around the edges of the trash bag-covered windows. There's warmth behind me, warmth that should be comforting, that has always been comforting before, but then why is my stomach still roiling?

"Can ye wake up fer me, girl? Need t' feel ye. Wake up fer me."

Murphy's hands roam hungrily over me, fingers sliding into me with startling force, his erection throbbing against my lower back. His other arm curls under my shoulders and around my collar bone, anchoring me firmly against him. Even as my pelvis rocks instinctively to meet his thrusts, my mind is screaming that this is still wrong, that I need to move, to get out of the bed, to-

"Grace, talk to me. Are ye awake? I need to be wit' ye. Are ye ready?"

His voice quavers, his whisper thick and unsteady and unpleasantly hot against my ear. The whole room is unpleasantly hot, and I squirm hard in his grip, trying to push away. Murphy groans at my movement, burying his face in my hair where it's come loose from my braid.

"I…yes…, but-"

Though I only meant to answer that I'm awake, Murphy takes my yes as consent and enters me with a growling curse. He's tense behind me, his body rigid as he plunges as deep as he can. His urgent, frenetic energy sets off alarm bells in my head, and my stomach twists violently. Trepidation coils in the pit of my belly as the storm grows louder outside.

"Murphy, what-"

Another snarl of thunder interrupts me as Murphy withdraws and slams home again, forcing me further down into the mattress. I scramble for purchase, my hands grasping at the bed sheets, but Murphy catches my wrists in an iron grasp, stretching my arms up over my head. His thrusts push us further over until I'm stretched out beneath his suffocating weight.

He shifts, switching both of my wrists to one hand and pulling at my legs with the other. I struggle underneath him until I'm on my knees in a position that seems almost a sick farce of someone prostrate at prayer. His chest hair scratches against my back, sending my already jangled nerves reeling, and every push of air through his lungs weighs him further down upon me. My panic is real as Murphy sets a punishing pace, his strokes brutally deep and fast, his grip on my wrists bruising to the point of real pain.

"Lemme hear ye."

His growled command momentarily shocks me out of my submissive stupor, and I wrestle to pull in a deep breath.

"Murphy, please-"

"Aye, girl, say it again."

"No, I didn't-" I can't think, he's too heavy, I can't breathe…The storm, and there's too much noise, and-

His teeth scrape along the ridge of my shoulder, sinking into the juncture at my neck with so much force, and the shriek that escapes me is sheer, frenzied pain. I can't pull my hands free, I can't move, can't breathe, can't breathe, I can't-

Murphy's teeth dig harder into the tendons of my throat, and I can feel the growl in his chest more than hear it over the raging of the storm. The sudden image of a slavering, rabid wolf flashes across my vision, followed in rapid succession by Connor's bloodied form and Rocco's silent corpse. Lightning blazes through the room, and my panic explodes in a blast of hysteria.

I rear back, smashing my head into Murphy's face as hard as I can. There's a feral curse above me, and then I'm free, air rushing back into my lungs with dizzying speed. I fling myself off the bed, my wrist smashing against the bedside table, and roll to my knees on the floor, my lungs burning as I scramble backwards away from him.

Murphy kneels on the bed, shoulders heaving, holding a hand to his temple and forehead while the other hand clutches the sheets with a death grip.

"You fucking asshole."

The snarl shocks both of us, but it's not until Murphy turns to stare at me, eyes wide with the horrified realization as to what he's actually done, that I grasp the words came from me. I didn't even know I could sound like that. My throat burns and throbs horribly where he bit me, and I raise a trembling hand to brush at the wound. My fingertips come away with a faint smudge of red, and my eyes snap back to his.

"You…how could you…what did you do to me, Murphy?"

The flat, dangerous question hangs in the air between us. I don't even know why I asked it; the answer is obvious, the evidence staining my fingers even as my glare intensifies. His mouth gapes wide, opening and closing silently as he pants, pushing himself back as if he's afraid of me all of a sudden.

I'm sure he didn't mean to actually hurt me, but I'm so out of my depth right now I can barely surface for air. The dream, the storm, the blind horror and despair of the last few days, mixed with this, and it's all I can do not to pass out again.

"I didn't...I'm so sorry, I didn't…I never meant to, I would never...Grace, I'm-"

He reaches for me, a tremor running through his arm, anguish making his eyes bright and strange, and to my horror and shame, I jerk reflexively back. We both stare, shocked, at the empty space between us. If it weren't for the thrashing of the storm outside, the room would be heavy with silence. As it is, the tension is crushing, and I scramble to my feet, shuddering with near hysteria as I practically sprint to the bathroom.

I slam the door on Murphy and whatever he's trying to say. I just manage to turn the lock with my nerveless fingers before collapsing on the floor next to the bathtub. My arms circle my knees, gripping them to my chest to keep my heart from bursting right out of my ribcage. I have no clue what just happened, but I'm going to need...something...I don't...I don't know what I need. I need Connor, I need Rocco back, I need Murphy, undamaged and comforting and not terrifying and unstable.

I need to breathe.

After what could be forever or just a few minutes, Murphy knocks tentatively. Before he can say anything, I slam my fist against the pressboard in response, the door rattling pitifully in its cheap frame. Blistering anger scorches behind my face, and my throat raw as I force the words out.

"Fuck off, Murphy! If you want to fix this, if you ever want us to be okay after what just happened, give me a goddamn minute to convince myself you aren't a fucking psycho. Get the fuck away from the door, or I'll make you sorry you ever knocked."

There's a solid minute of silence before I see his shadow move away from underneath the door. He doesn't go far, though, and I hear a quiet groaning around where the sink and mirror would be. Though I don't know for sure, I can almost see him, his hands clenching hard at the counter, his head hanging down, his shoulders rigid with…what? Anger? Frustration? Despair?

"Stupid motherfucker. Goddamn stupid motherfucker!"

Even on the other side of the bathroom door, I shrink back from the venom in Murphy's voice, but his words aren't directed at me. The sounds of impact filter clearly through the flimsy excuse for a partition, heavy thuds of flesh on something solid, and it's not longer before the shriek of shattering glass causes my stomach to twist and my toes to curl. After a final curse, I hear Murphy pad away from the counter and sink down on the bed.

Both my wrists ache abominably, especially the one that I slammed into the bedside table (which, of course, is the hand I used to hit the door). My neck throbs, and I reach out for the single unused washcloth. After washing the injury gently with cold tap water from the tub, I see that it never bled much, but I can only imagine how it looks. Fighting every tear that tries to force its way out, I keep rinsing the cloth out with fresh, cold water as I have no way to apply ice.

I feel trapped. I can't…I can't go out there. I know Murphy won't hurt me…again. I know he didn't mean to hurt me in the first place, but he lost control, and I don't think I can deal with it. My stomach continues to and protest nauseatingly as I replay the scene over and over in my head, and for a moment, I'm absolutely sure I'm going to be sick.

It's too much. I've lost too much, and I can't lose him, either, but…I just…I can't deal…I need someone, something...I need to just open the fucking door and confront Murphy, tell him to get his shit together better than that, but…My legs won't lift me, my arms won't do anything but hold my knees that much tighter to my abdomen.

Maybe I just need to sit here for a few more minutes, give him a little more time to cool off before I tear into him. Maybe I need to cool off a little myself. Maybe I need to wait until Connor comes back so we can at least have a referee. I just…I don't know.

Whatever it is I need right now, though, it's sure as hell not the unhinged stranger on the other side of the door.