Thismotherfuckershrugs.
“You shouldn't dress like that if you don't want attention. I tried to tell you that, that night at the bar-” I step back, my heel bumping into the shelf behind me.
His face changes, something hungry lurking in his eyes.
Before I can sidestep, he lunges towards me, hands snapping around my wrists — tight, bruising. He yanks me forward, smashing me against his chest.
His breath is sour, hot. Like mint trying to cover something rotten.
“I just want to talk. I don't like being rejected. It makes me… upset. When I'm upset, I don't think clearly.”
“Let go,” I snarl, trying to sound more confident and powerful than I feel. All I really feel is pure, feminine distress.
“I’ll be so good to you. You just have to stop pretending. Stop acting like you're better than me.”
“Iambetter than you,” I spit.
His grip on my wrists tighten further.
“You didn't mind when I danced with you at the club. Until your dyke-bitch friend had to interrupt us.”
I struggle to find my calm, to speak rationally. “You grabbed me. From behind. Without asking.”
“And you didn't stop me.”
“I froze!”
The word seems to sting. Good. I hope it fucking hurts.
“You're saying I assaulted you now? You're calling me a predator?!”
“I’m saying that you're making me afraid, Brett.You've been crossing lines! You make me uncomfortable. Showing up uninvited. Touching me without consent. And now — for fucks sake — you're here, in my locked bookstore, AT NIGHT, PHYSICALLY RESTRAINING ME.”
“I care about you!” His voice is rising. “I've been watching out for you. I've seen the way people look at you, not caring that you're MINE. I have to protect you.”
“I already have someone!”
“Oh.Him.” Brett is dismissive, his lip curling. “That tall freak who skulks around? Acting like he owns you, even when he knows you're mine.”
I still. He seems to be spiraling into a rant.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like he gets to decide. Like he's controlling you.”
“You're projecting,” I can't help but goad him. “You'rethe one obsessed.”
Where the fuck is Flint? I reach out to Calida but she must be hunting and out of range.
My comment finally cracks him, his face contorting. “You think you're so much better than me,” he sneers. “Wearing those tight jeans, short skirts, acting all pure — but you're begging for it. I see it in you. You want someone to put you in your place. You think anyone else is gonna want someone like you?”
He raises his hand, like he's about to strike me.
“Take your hand off her,” a voice commands, low and lethal, “or I'll take it off you.”
Flint.
Oh, thank fuck.
He emerges from the back hall, lit by the soft golden glow of the storeroom. His body is coiled in violence, low and lethal.
