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He spins around and I draw up short.
“You wanna talk?” His voice is seething, pure fire. “Let’s fucking talk.”
He opens the unisex bathroom door, pulling me in, shutting and locking it behind us. Gold and cream marble, gaudy gold fixtures on the sink, and a massive mirror reflecting the picture we make.
“Tor—”
“Fucking engaged,” he snaps, stepping up behind me. I turn in his arms, letting him bracket my body with his hands on the marble.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, tucking my head into his shoulder, huffing his scent like an addict. He grips the back of my neck and pulls me off him, tilting my head back.
“Yeah?” he asks, the light mocking tone back again with a vengeance. “You gonna marry him, doll?”
“Toren—”
“If you marry that little boy wannabe sports agent out there, I’ll sign a contract with him that night,” he threatens, tilting his head into my neck. “I’ll bring him along; convince him of the connections he could make in whatever team signs me—become his best fucking friend if I have to.”
He huffs a laugh against my skin before laying a soft open-mouthed kiss there.
“Because I’ll know you’re in my goddamn box every night, watching me play, watching me fight—knowing it turns you on. Knowing you’ll have to excuse yourself to your little husband at night and in your elegant bathroom from your penthouse apartment that my skill and my body pay for, you’ll touch yourself thinking about me.”
A moan slips out, loud and long, my nails digging into his forearm. Fuck . . . He’s doing this on purpose, soft, teasing touches and harsh, angry words. He spins me toward the mirror, tearing my grip from his body.
“At every event, you’ll excuse yourself again and I’ll follow you, just so I can remind you exactly what this is.” I meet his eyes in the mirror, and I swear they look almost red. Like he’s . . . he’s upset.
“You and me, forever.” I want to slip into his skin. It’s never felt like this with anyone else, and I know it never will. I will always want him.
I think part of me has always known that my obsession with Toren isn’t healthy, but I didn’t care.
When I was sixteen, I lay across his bare chest and traced the dark marks over his body and nearly cried that I would never be able to be inside him. I wanted to crack open his chest and live there, so that no matter what happened, I’d always be his.
“Say it,” he demands now.
“You and me, forever,” I pant.
He grins, canines sharp and gleaming as he shakes his head with a choked laugh. “Filthy little liar.”
He stumbles back, his head knocking into the wall as he stares at me through the mirror. My head is stuffed up with want so strong I want to latch myself to his side like a barnacle. I look for his anger as if it might settle me, but he’s not angry. He looks terrified. Desperate.
Unlocking the door, he pulls on the handle and leaves me behind, stewing in regret for everything I’ve ever done that helped to make us this. We were those kids once. It wasn’t some fantasy world I made up in my head, as my dad wants me to believe.
It was real, and soft and warm. Safe in a way Toren needed. Happy in a way I was desperate for. We made that—and if my father had never been a part of Toren’s life, if I hadn’t brought them together as a child, not knowing any better, what could this have been for us?
I’m losing steam, and living in a reality where I’ve let everyone else take total control of my life—to the point that no one has bothered even asking what I want.
I’ve stayed calm, collected, bided my time because facing Toren’s anger was never what I wanted. But Toren isn’t angry. He’s scared. And that’s enough to have me following him.
Toren did this for years, putting up with my father for far too long. I can get through one suffocating dinner. But then, I’m taking back control of my life. I know what I want. This time I’m determined to get it.
Chapter 47
Toren
I barely make it into a stall in the ornate black marble of the men’s room before vomiting.
I can’t stand to watch her anymore, to be around her. It’s like I’m being carved out from the inside, slow and painful.
I manage to vomit once more—though it’s mostly a dry heaving mess that leaves me sweaty and undone.
