"I'll try," I say. "I should go. I have reading to finish."
"Okay. I love you."
"Love you too."
I hang up and stare at my phone for a long moment. Then I open my laptop and try to focus on my work, but the words blur together on the page. I keep thinking about Thad's words:Once we're married, you'll be too busy with charity work and hosting to play in the dirt.
I keep thinking about the life he's planning for me, the future he's already decided on without my input. I fall asleep with my book open on my chest, and I dream of ancient ruins and summer sun and dark eyes that see right through me.
When I wake in the morning, Thad has sent a good morning text, reminding me that he loves me, that he's thinking about me. I respond dutifully, playing the role of a devoted fiancée, saying all the right things.
But inside, I already feel like I'm drowning, and I don't know how much longer I can keep my head above water.
4
ROMEO
Isee them together for the first time on a Friday evening, outside a fancy restaurant that I bet he thinks makes him something special for taking her to it.
I’m aware, as I have been all my life, when I’m doing something that I shouldn’t but feel no compunction not to, that following her isn’t the right thing to do. Usually, when I do something outside societal mores, like killing one of my father’s enemies or torturing information out of a third party, I do it with calculation, with a clear plan as to why and what purpose it serves.
This isn’t calculated. It’s that same compulsion, aneedto see her, to have her in my sight until I can figure out how to talk to her. And once I realized that this asshole she’s supposed to be marrying was with her, I couldn’t stop myself from following.
She looks pretty and wholesome as a church pamphlet in her modest blue dress, but even the high neckline and low hem can’t stop me from getting hard as I watch from the other side of the street. The pearl earrings in her ears wink in the lights outside, and I imagine giving her a necklace to match, beads of my cum arranged over her throat as she tips her head back and moansmy name. I can imagine my fingers in her while I mark her with it, feeling her clench around me as I make her mine.
The only dampener on my arousal is her fiancé. Thaddeus Whitmore III, with his khakis and his blue button-down and his hand on her lower back, possessive and proprietary.
The feeling that hits me is so unfamiliar it takes me a moment to identify it. It's hot and sharp and visceral, spreading through my chest like poison.
Jealousy.
I've never felt it before Savannah. Never had reason to. I take what I want, when I want it, and I've never wanted anything enough to care if someone else had it first.
Until now.
I watch through the window as Whitmore leans close to say something in her ear, and Savannah smiles—a polite, practiced smile that doesn't reach her eyes. His hand slides from her back to her hip, fingers splaying possessively, and something dark and violent unfurls in my chest.
I want to break every one of those fingers.
A waiter approaches their table, and I watch Whitmore order without consulting her. Savannah's smile falters for just a moment—there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it—but I didn't. The waiter leaves, and Whitmore is talking, gesturing with his wine glass, clearly going on about something he considers important. Savannah nods, says something brief, and he laughs—not with her, but at her. Dismissive. Condescending.
The jealousy crystallizes into a cold, furious anger deep in my gut.
I've spent the last three weeks learning everything about Savannah Beauregard. I know her academic credentials, her background, her current course load. I hear her talk in class. I’mthoroughly aware of how intelligent she is, and this mediocre trust fund brat is laughing at her like she's told a cute joke.
I want to walk into that restaurant, drag him out of his chair, and make him understand exactly what he has and what he's dismissing, what he doesn't deserve. Instead, I stand on the sidewalk and watch, cataloging every touch, every dismissive gesture, every moment of Savannah's discomfort that she tries to hide behind that perfect Southern belle smile.
When they finally leave the restaurant, Whitmore's arm is around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. They walk past me, but they don't see me. I've positioned myself in the shadows between the streetlights, and Whitmore is too busy talking to notice anything beyond his own voice.
I wait at Savannah’s building until he brings her back. A part of me knows it’s a bad idea; that I don’t know what I’ll do if she takes him up with her. I think about the fact that he might take her back to his hotel, and that thick, curdling jealousy feels like it might eat me alive.
When they come back, I see Whitmore back her against the entrance, his body pressing into hers, kissing her with an aggression that makes my hands curl into fists. Savannah's hands come up to his chest—not pulling him closer, but pushing back.
He doesn't notice. Or he doesn't care.
When he finally releases her and walks away, I disappear around the corner before Savannah can see me. But that mingled jealousy and anger pulse in my chest like a living thing, ready to explode.
—
