“Laugh.” His face is a mixture of soft and serious.
I hum softly and run my fingers through his hair. He leans into my touch, letting his lips brush the inside of my palm as I pull my hand down his face. An odd sense of dread curdles my stomach, and I push myself up a little higher on his chest.
“I can’t laugh on command.”
“Then how do I get you to laugh again?” he questions thoughtfully. His eyes roam my face as if he’s trying to remember every detail of this moment, and something about it feels like a premature goodbye.
“You have to make me happy.” My words are a challenge, and I can tell by the shift in his expression, he understands exactly what I’m implying.
His lips quirk, but he doesn’t smile. “The multiple orgasms weren’t enough?” Although he says his words in jest, there’s a sadness lingering in his dark eyes.
“You got your laugh for that. But don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to make me happy again.” My fingers trail down his chest, slowly, teasingly.
I think that maybe if I can bring us back to our fog of lust, the inevitable won’t happen. Maybe I can keep him from pushing me away.
“Azalea.”
The way he says my name all but screams the confirmation of my fears, and my heart cracks.
“I’m staying.” My eyes flick up to his, a stubborn intensity lining their amber hue.
“You’re not.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Actually, I do. This is my castle.”
My nostrils flare, and I scramble off his body. His expression is shadowed, but I can still see when his mask of indifference slips into place. The Braxton who was just with me, the man who was holding me, is gone.
I hastily grab a blanket off the back of the chair and wrap it around my body, but he makes no effort to cover himself, showing he has nothing to hide. No tricks up his sleeves. He only has the raw truth of who he is. I open and close my mouth as I try and search for the question that will help me make sense of any of this.
I feel used.
I feel stupid.
I feel broken.
The only emotion I want to feel is the same one that seems to be evading me—rage.
“I expect you to have your bags packed by morning. Be in the foyer, I’ll be there to send you off.”
“Don’t bother,” I sneer, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
“I’ll be there.” There’s an earnestness in his eyes that has my face scrunching with confusion.
I don’t understand why he’s doing this, but I’m far too proud to ask him that question directly.
“I don’t want you there.” If he detects the lie in my words, he doesn’t point it out.
I turn and make my way to the door, focusing on keeping the splintered pieces of my heart from falling apart. I refuse to let him shatter me.
I should yell at him before I go. A few weeks ago, I would have. I would have thought of every weapon I could use to my advantage in this study, but those urges don’t fill me anymore. More so, the hatred that fueled those urges isn’t there anymore. No matter how much I wish to deny it, I don’t hate Braxton. In fact, I think I was coming dangerously close to feeling the opposite.
I curse myself for ever being so stupid as to fall for his ruse. Now I remember who he is, and more importantly, I remember why I could never, in this lifetime or the next, ever love him.
55
Azalea
