His smirk grows. "Don't touch that pretty little pussy tonight, princess. It belongs to me now, and I'll know if you do. And don't touch the plug until you get home, either. Bring it with you again tomorrow."
He's gone before I can throw anything. But I do it anyway, launching the stapler at the door with all my strength. It hits with a satisfying thud before landing in a heap on the floor.
I sit back at my desk, shaking, my mouth raw and my body thrumming with heat and rage. I wonder how much longer I can keep losing to him before I just stop fighting altogether.
But the truth is—I'll never stop fighting. And he knows it.
That's why he wants me.
That's why he'll never let me go.
I try to scrub the memory of him off my skin in a scalding shower as soon as I get home, but the feel of him all over me lingers, refusing to fade. So does his taste.
My knees still ache from the carpet burn, and my throat feels battered and raw.
By the time I collapse onto my couch, my hair dripping onto a faded concert tee, it's after seven. I'm exhausted, but my brain is on an endless highlight reel of every fucked-up, infuriating thing Asher did to me today. I could kill him. I could kill myself for letting him win.
The living room is dim, lit by one salt lamp and the bright glow of the city through the window. I curl up in a blanket, my phone pressed to my ear, listening to it ring until Liam finally picks up.
He sounds tired. "Hey, baby sis. What's up?"
I close my eyes, burrowing deeper into my blanket. "Did you know that your best friend is a complete fucking sadist? Like, literally Satan in a suit?"
There's a pause, then the familiar rumble of his laugh. "Is this a first-day-of-work rant, or did he commit actual war crimes here?"
"It's not funny," I groan. "He made me work in his office all day, like a trophy on a shelf. I couldn't even breathe without him hearing it. Then he sent me for coffee, didn't drink a drop, and had me do a spreadsheet for hours just to delete it. He's torturing me, Liam."
A yawn crackles through the receiver. "You know he only does that because you let him get to you, right?"
I scowl into the room as if he can really see me. "Tell that to my blood pressure."
My brother is quiet for a moment. "Brie, you need to stop letting him have real estate in your head. He's an asshole to everyone, not just you."
I hesitate, picking at the threadbare hem of my blanket. "You never see how he looks at me. It's like he wants to eat me alive just because he hates me."
Liam sighs, and I picture him running a hand through his perfect black hair, probably staring at a script or a scheduling app at the same time. "That's not hate, Brie."
I bark out a laugh. "Oh, so it's love now? That's rich. The only thing Asher loves is power."
Liam is gentle, but he doesn't let up. "You don't know him like I do. He acts like he doesn't give a fuck, but it's just armor. He found his parents' bodies after they were murdered. His uncle had him working before he was even fourteen. And then there was the accident. He's fucked up, Brie, but if you ever let yourself see beneath the armor, you'd realize that he's not as bulletproof as he wants to be."
I almost tell him about his best friend's hand around my throat and the way my body betrayed me completely, but I can't. I'm not ready to admit it out loud, especially not to Liam.
"He remembers finding his parents?" I ask softly, my heart aching at the thought. They were shot to death in a home invasion when Asher was eleven. It was just a random act of violence, but Asher was the one who found them when he got home from school.
"Would you forget?" Liam asks instead of answering.
I hesitate for a long moment, and then sigh. "No, I guess not."
"He remembers," my brother says, his voice soft. "But I don't think that's what haunts him. It's the fucking car accident."
"Did he tell you to say this?" I ask, my eyes narrowed.
Liam chuckles. "No, he'd kill me if he knew I was trying to play therapist. But you didn't see him after the accident, baby sister. I did. He was a fucking mess."
My breath catches. "What do you mean?"
He hesitates, as if weighing how much to say. "You think he's untouchable, but when you got hurt, he didn't leave the hospital until they dragged him out in cuffs. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't move. He just sat there for hours while you were in surgery. If you hadn't made it…I don't think he would have either."
