She spun to face me, her back arched against golden doors. False confidence that would soon disappear.
“You almost look cute. Pretending you’re not fucking terrified of me.” I laughed into her ear, sharp fangs clamping as my teeth bite down on her soft skin, testing whether she’d jump.
And she did, almost a mile into the fucking air.
“Where were you going? Did he not tell you not to run? I thought he’d have warned you,” I whispered still close to her ear. “The little prick has a big mouth for a small boy.”
“He’s a bigger person than you are. A better person.” She forced her gaze on me, just as the doors parted dropping her onto other hotel guests and a hoard of their luggage.
I clutched her arm, grabbing with force, my touch bruising. I yanked her forward, pulling her from those she’d almost bowled over.
Her hair jerked from her face, causing her fiery persona to retreat into hiding as she frantically concealed herself behind her coils. Then behind me.
“Apologies. My wife is a little nervous around strangers. Traumatic past.” I left out the part that I caused it.
I turned, guiding her from behind me. She remained silent. Trained so perfectly to only speak when spoken to.
“Aren’t you, darling?” I couldn’t call her whore in front of this kind of audience—a happy family, parents and two teenagers. One of which had her eyes lingering a little too long on my cock, which luckily, was no longer peeping out to see the sights of Vegas. But her stare still managed to make me and my amazing moral compass feel uncomfortable.
Jolie nodded.
Eager to get away, I spread my fingers, weaving them between hers. My eyes invaded her stare fixed on the family in front of me, pleading for help. I dared her with a cocky grin to voice her request.
She chose wisely, bringing a smile to my lips. Her hand tightened around mine as I stepped backwards, pulling her away.
“Sorry, again.” I smiled, fake charm holding on to each pearly white. “And sorry you had to see us messing around in our delicates. It’s our honeymoon.” I turned my attention back to Jolie, my unloving bride. “Let’s go celebrate it.”
I carted Jolie back down towards our room. Her little feet rushed to keep up with my long strides, trying to outrun any punishment that would catch up to her if she disobeyed me in public.
Closing the door, concealing ourselves from the world, she turned to face me as I rested against the entrance.
“I was going for breakfast.” Her growling stomach echoed in the otherwise silent room, begging me to believe her.
“Where did you get money?” My foot kicked back, resting against the wood of the door.
“From Woodrow’s pocket.”
“Woodrow’s pocket. . .” my lips scrunched, then twisted into a snarl. “My pocket?”
“I thought the trousers were Woodrow’s. Woody said—”
“Woody said what exactly?” I kicked off from the door, making the distance she was creating between us smaller as she drifted back farther and farther. “Drop the money, Jolie.”
Unravelling the money notes she’d tucked into the side of her knickers like a cheap whore, she dropped them to the ground, along with the loose change she’d kept tightly clutched in her hand this whole time.
A quarter bounced off my foot as I stepped into her breathing space. A minty puff stole my attention for a second as she took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” she lied to my face, her eyes meeting mine for a split second.
I almost laughed at her defiance as I asked, “Did the little cunt inside me tell you that it was okay to steal from me? Fuck, I can see why those bastards hated him so much.”
The anger I felt talking about my parents brought steam through my nose, ferrying down my nostrils and poisoning the peppermint-coated air around us.
My fingers wrapped around Jolie’s arms, pressing into her delicate skin. My forefingers pressed my thumbs, closing around her small arms.
I didn’t like her new body, and proof showed on my face.
I didn’t like skinny girls, at all. They reminded me of my mother.
