Page 156 of Twisted Truth

It’s time to finally start finding justice for my grandfather.

42

ELLA

The scent of Asher’s penthouse hits me as we make our way inside after our flight home. It’s a clean scent with an undercurrent of the fresh flower arrangements Ms. Graham always has on display, and echoes of whatever delicious dish Pierre made. The combination of scents is like a warm blanket I hadn’t realized I’d missed, and in the back of my mind I can’t help but think,It’s good to be home.

But it’s not my home, it’s Asher’s home.

And my time here will be up one day.

Which reminds me that my time with Asher will be up one day. The swell of happiness I felt at being home deflates as I’m brought back down to earth. Our trip to London was magical, so the reality of returning home is bittersweet. It doesn’t help that Asher was quiet the entire flight, hardly speaking a word to me. He looked exhausted, we both were—we’d had a full schedule in London—but he insisted he wasn’t, and busied himself with work. Even now, he looks stressed and stiff, and I’ve asked him at least a dozen times if he’s okay. He keeps assuring me he is. He insists it’s just work. He’s just busy. But Ican tell it’s more than that. And my insecurities make me wonder if it’s regret.

Does he regret crossing those boundaries now that we’re home?

I don’t know if I want to know the answer.

I make my way toward the stairs, pulling my suitcase after me.

“You’re not going that way anymore,” Asher says from behind me.

“What?” I turn and ask him.

“Your bedroom has been cleared, and your things have been put into my room. I don’t want you upstairs anymore.”

My mouth opens and closes.

“You had my things moved down to your room?” I ask, repeating his words. Maybe because I’m a bit drowsy and jet lagged, but I’m having a hard time comprehending. Did he really do that?

“Yes. Now that I’ve had you in my bed all week, I’m not about to give that up.”

Relief hits me like a brick. So, maybe he doesn’t regret things. But then thatstupid rational bitchin my brain argues that he did this without asking. I try to shut upstupid rational bitch, but alas, she’s a persistent one.

“And what about what I want?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I didn’t want to be moved into your bedroom?”

He narrows his eyes and stalks toward me. “You don’t want to be in my bedroom with me?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is, you didn’t even ask me if that’s what I wanted. You just had it done without my knowledge. What if I had objected?”

“Do you object?”

I huff. “No, but I’m a bit annoyed that you didn’t at least ask first.”

He chuckles darkly. “A lion doesn’t ask; he takes what he wants.”

“And I’m supposed to just always go along with that?”

He’s quiet, contemplative for a moment. “No, you’re free to have your own thoughts and opinions, obviously. But I also work in a way that cuts the bullshit out of things. Why delay when this was the inevitability? Are you telling me that after what we’d experienced together in London, you were about to return to your separate room? Are you going to deny that you would have ended up in my bed each night? That you’d be waking in it each morning? Are you going to tell me the logistics of having your things spread between two rooms on two different floors wouldn’t have been an annoyance? This is the scenario we would have ended up in, in a matter of days or weeks. So, why complicate our lives for those days or weeks? When I want something, I don’t dance around it. I go after it, and I get it. And that action doesn’t just take place in the boardroom.”

I sigh. Damn him. I hate to admit to myself that I’m so fucking turned on by his possessive male dominance, and his logic is sound.

“Just next time, please consult me.”

“Noted. Now turn around and get your ass toourbedroom. I haven’t been inside you since last night, and that’s too fucking long.”