Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
My jaw tightens so hard it aches. “You can’t just cut me off from my parents. From my friends. From my job—”
He barks a humorless laugh, and it ricochets off the marble like a gunshot disguised as amusement. “Your job? The one you hate. Your parents? You hate them too. And don’t say friends . . . We both know you don’t have any. I did you a favor.”
“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me.” Heat climbs my throat, turning my words sharp. “You don’t get to put guards on me like I’m a thing you’re afraid of misplacing.”
“I am afraid of misplacing you.” His eyes narrow. “I worked very hard to acquire you.”
Acquire.
The word makes my skin crawl. It also makes my stomach drop.
I take another step toward him, anger buzzing like a live wire. “You’re isolating me.”
“I’m protecting what I own,” he corrects, head tilting. “Two different words. Same result.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugs. “You married into my world.”
“I. Didn’t. Have. A. Choice. Or did you forget?”
“What was your other option? Your father was one deal away from selling you to the Jameson spawn.”
The memory of Grant Jameson’s dead eyes flickers through me. Lorenzo was not wrong. I’d managed to push back the relationship as far as I could, but it was only a matter of time.
“Don’t,” I grit out. “Don’t act like you’re some upgrade. You broke into my life like a wrecking ball, and now you’re standing in the rubble like you own the land.”
“I do own it,” he replies, completely unbothered. “Metaphorically. Legally. Financially.” His eyes flick to mine. “Emotionally, we can debate.”
Something in me snaps so loud I’m surprised no one hears it.
I shove him. Two hands flat against his chest, pushing hard.
He rocks back half a step, more surprised than moved.
He’s solid as stone.
Was he always this strong?
His brows lift like I’ve offered him a gift. Then slow amusement unfurls across his face.
“Well.” He glances down at my hands. “Look at you. Violence. I’m touched.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I spit, yanking my hands away. “You don’t get to joke.”
He chuckles low, and the sound curls around my spine. “You’re adorable when you think you have options.”
I shove him again. Harder. He lets me this time. Moves with it.
He’s acting like I’m a child throwing a tantrum, and he’s humoring me so I can tire myself out. The humiliation burns hot behind my eyes.
“Stop that,” I snarl.
“Stop what?” He spreads his arms, smirking. “Letting you touch me?”
“Stop acting like this is funny,” I fire back. “Like my life is some game you’re playing to entertain yourself.”
His gaze sharpens. Slowly, he steps into my space, crowding me backward. I stumble, my back hitting the wall. He plants one hand beside my head, close enough to trap me without actually touching me.
Then the other hand comes up to cage me in.
My heart beats so fast I think I might pass out.
We’re close. Too close. His breath brushes my cheek. It feels warm, but it also feels like it’s edged with something darker underneath.
His eyes are fixed on mine, unblinking.
“Funny”—he leans in a fraction—“is not the word I’d use for you.”
My fingers curl against my side.
I should be terrified.
I am terrified.
But that’s not the only thing cracking under my skin, and I hate myself for it.
My pulse is hammering everywhere: my throat, chest, low in my stomach. The air between us hums, charged, like the second before lightning strikes.
“Let me go,” I whisper, hating how thin it sounds. “You’re crowding me.”
“I’m barely touching you.” His eyes dip to my mouth and back up. “If you think this is crowded, you’re out of practice.”
Heat floods my cheeks. Anger. Shame. And shit . . . something else. Something worse.
“Move,” I rasp.
“Or what?” His voice drops into a low rumble. “You’ll shove me again? Scratch me this time? Maybe you’ll scream? Do you want me to make you scream?” The innuendo isn’t lost on me.
My lips part, and a thousand memories slam into me like waves.
The boathouse.
His hands on me.
The way he used to kiss me.
I hate my body for remembering, but I hate it more for wanting it. Wanting him.
Please don’t notice . . . but of course, I’m not that lucky because I know without any measure of doubt he notices. Of course he does.
His gaze flicks down for the barest second, taking in my flushed cheeks, the way my breathing isn’t steady, and the way my throat bobs when I swallow.
His smile comes slow.
It’s dark and knowing.
“Careful, Little Bird. You’re looking at me like you did before you realized I was bad for you.”
“You were always bad for me,” I whisper.
“Yet,” he hums, leaning closer, “here we are. Again. You pinned between me and a wall. History has a sick sense of humor.”
I can’t think. His presence fills the space, thick and suffocating.