But she wasn’t ready to forgive anyone.
Something inside me stirred. A pull so sharp it made my jaw tighten. Part of me wanted to take her away from all of it. Another part wanted to bury her alongside her father.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
I repeated the rules in my head, clinging to them like scripture.
But they no longer worked.
So I made new ones.
Five rules.
Just for her.
Rule number one. Do not fall for Emily Beckett.
Rule number two. Do not let Emily Beckett fall in love with you.
Rule number three. Never touch her.
Rule number four. You have to kill her.
Rule number five. You will not allow any other man to have her either.
Present day
She walks in with her blonde hair twisted into a loose, careless bun. Strands slip free and cling to her forehead, trailing down along her jaw like a long curtain she keeps pushing back. Her glasses slide low on her nose, and she nudges them up with two fingers without realizing she is doing it.
She wears a tight black skirt that hugs her hips, stretched smooth around her ass as she moves. Her white shirt is buttoned wrong. One button skipped, another strained.
The mistake pulls my attention to it and refuses to let go.
My left eye started to twitch.
Something is different today.
She is not the confident little girl chasing answers about the infamous Zayne Mercer. That version of her is gone. This onelooks cornered. Like a small animal that realizes, too late, it has wandered somewhere it can’t escape.
Did she figure it out?
She clears her throat before sitting down, the chair scraping softly against the floor. Her notebook opens carefully in front of her, pages lifted as if they might tear if she rushes them. She writes the date with slow strokes.
October 1st, 2016.
I watch the way her chest rises and falls, just a little too fast. My gaze lifts, meets hers, and holds.
“Shall we start, Doctor?” I say, a quiet laugh slipping out.
Her smile comes late and leaves early. It doesn’t reach her eyes. A faint sheen of sweat glistens along her hairline. She wets her lips, clears her throat again, and nods.
“Today I would like to go a bit deeper into your past,” she says. “So tell me, Mr. Mercer, what was your relationship with your mother?”
“I never had one.” My eyes drift back to her mouth.
“And your father?”
“I had one. He’s dead now.” I tilt my head slightly. “Some people are better off dead.”
