"Okay," I say anyway because I've never been able to tell him no. Not because I agreed to be his little plaything. Not because I need his money. But because he's a piece of me, beating beneath my skin in place of my heart.
He hangs up before I can say anything else.
I stare at my phone for a long time, wondering if Liam is right. Wondering if this is what love looks like when the one who loves you is a monster.
Maybe, for people like us, this is precisely what it looks like. It hurts because that's all we know how to do. Because that's the only way we know we're still alive.
Chapter Thirteen
Asher
By the time the limo rolls up to the executive terminal at Teterboro, it's nearly eight. My jet is idling on the runway, with the steps already rolled out. The ground crew scrambles, trying to ensure we're prepped for takeoff as soon as the door closes behind us. They know I hate to be kept waiting.
Brielle is silent the entire drive, but the second we park, she whirls on me. "I thought we were going to a work event," she says, her voice all rage and venom. "Why are we at the airport?"
I lean back, enjoying her fury the way some men enjoy a single malt. "It is a work event," I say. "Just not in New York."
She glares at me, her green eyes radioactive. "You're taking me out of state? I don't have anything I need, Asher. I thought you wanted me to pack a bag to stay at your place, not to fly to wherever the fuck you're trying to take me! This is—"
I cut her off with a look. "We can get you whatever you need."
She snorts, yanking her purse tighter against her chest. "I'm not getting on that plane."
"Suit yourself," I say with a shrug. "But I'll just throw you over my shoulder and drag you up the steps. If you scream, I'll gag you again. Maybe I'll leave it in for the whole flight."
She opens her mouth, probably to tell me to fuck off, but then she sees my face and realizes I'm not bluffing. Her lips flatten into a furious line. "This is kidnapping," she mutters, stomping out of the car and slamming the door so hard the windows shudder.
I let her stomp ahead, watching the sway of her wide hips and the defiant set of her chin. Every step is an invitation to war.
Fuck. I've never wanted her more.
The crew bows and scrapes as we approach. The stewardess greets us at the door with a smile.
"Good evening, Mr. Blackstock. Ms. Dabry."
Brielle ignores her, blowing past to the cabin and throwing herself into a window seat. I nod at the crew and follow behind her.
I slide into the seat across from her, stretching my legs out so they almost touch hers. She pulls her feet up, curling into herself like a hedgehog. Cute, but I know better than to try petting her right now.
She isn't really pissed about the trip. She's still pissed about today. I don't blame her for it. I know I was a fucking asshole.
I also know I don't regret it. No one else gets to look at her like I do. No one.
I watch the way she stares out the window, refusing to look at me even when the flight attendants begin their safety routine. She'd rather pretend I don't exist, but her leg is shaking, and every so often she glances at her phone like she's waiting for rescue.
There's a sick comfort in knowing she won't speak unless I force her to. I could give her space. I could wait her out or tackle the subject myself. But then I'd have to admit that today nearly killed me.
I remember the look on her face this morning when Andrews strutted into my office, full of fucking charm and swagger. I remember how she blushed when he complimented her. I saw the way her mouth twisted into a real, unguarded smile. It was the kind of smile she rarely gives me, not without a fight.
I wanted to fucking kill him for it.
I know she was just playing her part. I know, logically, that I'm the only one she lets ruin her, the only one shewantsto ruin her. But something primal gnawed at me anyway, searing through every rational thought just like always where she's concerned.
I want to own her so completely that there's no air left in her lungs for anyone but me. So she never even thinks about giving herself to anyone else.
Instead, I have this: two more weeks, tops. And then she's free. She could fuck every movie star in the country, or marry some trust fund asshole, and there's nothing I could do about it except die a little more every time I picture her with someone else.
I swore I'd let her go after thirty days. It's the best thing for her, and I know this. But how am I supposed to watch her love someone who isn't me?
