She might be free but he had long-since imprinted himself in her psyche. Wherever she went, whether she was alone or not, he always haunted the edges of her vision, lurking in doorways, in the thickest crowds, always watching and waiting. In dreams she fancied she felt his touch, his mouth crawling all over her—sometimes passionate and gentle, other times ravenous and painful. It was on a frequent basis that she would wake with a start, her body heated and pulsing and wet from the memory of his touch. It was undeniable that she craved him still—she had to finish herself off most of the time, but when she was feeling especially bitter towards him she rolled onto her side, clamping her thighs shut, and ignored the desire as best as she could until it went away.