It's not his fault. I know that. But I can't help the spike of betrayal anyway, the sick feeling in my stomach that I'm the only one fighting back while everyone else just folds, giving Asher permission to rule my life.
I hang up without saying goodbye.
My hands are shaking when I open my contacts and scroll to my brother. Liam is my last hope, which is both hilarious and pathetic, since he's never once come through with Asher when I actually needed him.
He's been in London for the last week, working on his new movie. His last text was a photo of him with his arm around Henry Cavill. I debated blocking him out of spite.
I dial anyway. He doesn't pick up, of course. Instead, his voicemail answers, his voice cheerful and breezy. "It's Liam Dabry. I'm out of the country, probably shooting something epic, but leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
I wait for the beep. "Your best friend is ruining my life again, and you're never around when I need you." My voice shakes, but I keep going. "I hope London is everything you want it to be. I hope you're happy. But I'm not, and I really need you to call me back." I hang up before my voice cracks, and then I throw the phone across the island. It skitters before clattering to the floor, but it doesn't break.
I glare at it for a minute, daring it to ring.
It doesn't.
My eyes sting, not with tears, but with anger so hot it could melt steel. I lean back, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, and take a long, shuddering breath.
I want to curl up on the couch and forget the world exists, but that isn't me. I don't give up. I don't just let people do this to me, not even when that person is Asher Blackstock.Especiallywhen that person is Asher Blackstock. Everyone else in this city may be afraid of his wrath, but I'm not.
I get up, cross to the bathroom, and stare at my reflection. My hair is a mess, the black waves twisted and tangled around my face. There are purple shadows under my eyes. But my chin is still up, my eyes lit with unholy green fire.
I swipe the lipstick off the counter and apply a slash of red. It's messy, but I like it that way.
I grab my best suit from the closet—sleek, tailored black, with pants that make my ass look dangerous and my legs a mile long. The blazer molds to my curves, accentuating them in all the right places so I look like I have a shape other than soft and round. I tug it on over a thin white camisole, then roll up the sleeves to the elbow. It's not armor, exactly, but it's as close as I'm going to get. It makes me feel powerful and confident.
I dig out a pair of black suede heels with a four-inch stiletto. I'm not going to show up at his office looking like I've been crying. Hell no. I'm showing up like I'm ready to crush him and his dead, frozen heart.
I check my phone one last time. There's nothing from Liam. It's just me and my rage. Like usual.
I grab my keys, drop them in my purse, and square my shoulders.
If Asher wants a fight, he's going to get one. And he may have won the last round, but this time, I'm out for blood.
Chapter Two
Asher
"You fucking asshole!"
People mistake power for safety. They think that if you have enough of it, you become untouchable. The reality is, power just means you bleed in silence. You can't show weakness, not even for a second. The minute you do, you've already lost.
I'm not a man who loses.
But I don't think I've ever come close to winning with Brielle, either. She's had one hand around my heart and the other on my balls, like a pretty little viper coiled around me, just waiting for a reason to squeeze, since the moment I met her.
When she storms into my office a little after two in the afternoon, curses flying, looking like sin come to life, I come face to face with every goddamn one of my weaknesses.
My cock goes rock hard before I can blink. I try to remind myself that she's Liam's little sister, the girl I swore to protect and then nearly killed. But it doesn't help. It never fucking helps.
She's under my skin and has been for longer than I care to admit. Nothing I do ever expels her.
I've tried to make her hate me. I've tried harder, maybe, than I've ever tried anything before. Every time I snap at her, every time I brush her off, every time I rip a memory from her hands and leave it bleeding on the floor, I see hatred in her eyes. But it never sticks—not the way I need it to.
If she were smart, she'd choose a less dangerous obsession than a motherfucking monster like me. Instead, she looks at me as if I'm her own private death wish. And every goddamn time, that look embeds her a little more deeply into my psyche.
One of these days, we'll tear each other to shreds. I'll be her downfall, or she'll be my demise. It feels almost inevitable at this point. And even still, I can't convince myself to let her go.
"Brielle." Her name is a kind of poison I shouldn't breathe. But I say it like I'm starving for the taste of it anyway.
