A hand covers my mouth before I can scream. The storm muffles the sounds of my dragging feet, dress shoes scuffling along the marble floor, but no one’s around to save me. What a fucking metaphor for my life. And whatever man posing as a human metal cage is goddamn impenetrable. At my size and strength, I should be able to at least?—
Oh, wait, it’s Tate, isn’t it?
Motherfucker. I don’t stop fighting, twisting, or trying to inflict damage. Do they grow VanCourts in labs? Because what the actual fuck? My feet hit carpet as we pass a doorframe. I kick my head back and—crunch!My skull cracks his nose.
He releases me, and I spin in time to catch him wiping blood from his upper lip, smiling, almost proud. Okay, I thought I did a lot more damage, but even his nose is more resistant than everyone else’s. Maybe Tate’s not human.
“You think you’re so smart. Manipulating everyone. Making them eat out of your hand. This is a fucking circus to you. Mylifeis a fucking circus to you.”
He shrugs out of his suit jacket, shutting the door. Locking it. Then he turns, dark eyes cool, movements slow and calculated like the predator he is. My heart races.
“I’m more than smart, dollface.” Tate does that thing he does, trailing his gaze over me, as if he’s taking stock, making sure his property’s still in the condition he left it in. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, crisply rolling them up. Why’s that so damn hot? “You were distracting in there. Could barely keep my eyes off you.”
“You used me as a pawn, asshole.” My hands meet his chest; I push him toward the wall. We’re in someone’s office. Just like the theme in the boardroom, there are more monochrome tones—wooden shelves, a mahogany desk, even a tall wooden grandfather clock—but there are rows upon rows of books, and a large set of windows behind the desk, the gray daylight flattening the room into something colder.
My mighty shove only sends him a step back, but I advance on him, shoving some more. This time, he hits the wall, bookshelves rattling. But he let me do that, didn’t he? Purposely not holding his ground. A way of waving a flag of surrender.
“You used me. We’re all your toys, and you use us to your design.” I can’t believe how much that hurts. How it rips into what’s left of my tattered heart and drains what blood it has left. Tate’s breath hitches. “Is this turning you on?”
Tate reaches for my tie, circling it around his fist, using it to draw me to him. My breathing’s ragged, blood filling my cock. Guess not even being furious with Tate will stop that from happening. My cock’s an asshole, too.
“Of course, it turns me on. I use people to my design, it’s always been that way, but dollface, you should know by now, my only toy is you. I couldn’t give a fuck about the rest of them.”
“Is that supposed to be sweet?”
“It’s what’s true,” he says, staring at me as if he’s captivated. “And I definitely plan on using you, but in a very different way than I use them.”
A shudder knocks against my bones, and the rest of the world falls away. Like all the other times, I want Tate to consume me. Make me forget where I am. Who I am. Take all my responsibilities away.
No.No.I can’t let him do that this time.
But he’s too close. He smells too good, like spicy cologne and sweat. I want to feel his sweat against mine and lick it away.
“Say one more fucking word like that, and I’ll break your face,” I growl, slamming him harder into the wall, a forearm braced across his chest. Our lips are close. Breathing the same air.
“I love our foreplay.” Tate lets out a breathy exhale, body stiff, coiled like a spring waiting to be released. “If you must, dollface. God, you’re beautiful.”
He pushes the hair off my face.
“Tate.” My voice strangles. Because he makes it hard to hate him, to stay furious with him. I don’t want to be like the people of the board, or his coworkers, or fucking McKinnon. I want to be able to resist him.
“For the record, I wasn’t treating you like a pawn. Never. I mean, there’s a good chance my brother thinks I am after a conversation I had with him, and I’m sure it looked that way to your father, but you’re clearly a weapon.”
Tate makes me feel like something when he says shit like that. Like I’m not worthless, and that’s the real danger here. I can’t start believing him. Pride has no place in my father’s prison.
“You can’t think this was going to win my father over. There’s no way I can ask him now.”
He tightens his grip on my tie, the closeness of his lips more a threat than seduction. “You never were.”
It’s an accusation, and that pisses me off. I tried to get him to understand without telling all, something we agreed neither of us had to do, but he wouldn’t listen.
“You don’t get it, Tate,” I snap. “I can’t ask my father, and it’s not because he’s stubborn; it’s because he doesn’t want me to have a life. I’m his prisoner. I do what he tells me to do, and I don’t ask for shit.”
My chest heaves as if I’ve been sprinting. I hate having to admit that out loud. When I don’t think about it, when I focus on other things, I can pretend it’s not happening. My heart races as he stares into my soul.
“What do you mean you’re his prisoner?” he says in a slow, deadly voice.
I grit my teeth. Fuck. What I wouldn’t give to take the words back. But they’re out there; I said them. He knows. Who says I have to give him the details?
