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"It meant nothing,” I interrupt him. “You have to believe me, Q.”
“I do.” He swallows again. "I’m sorry my jealousy got the better of me. I’m sorry I’m not a better man. I’m sorry I can’t level out the playing field for Felix more. I’m a heartless, selfish, arsehole who cannot—will not give you up. I’m the kind of insensitive, cold-blooded, self-serving, dominant who commands you to marry me." He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses the back of my palm. "Marry me for real, Raven, and make me the happiest man on this earth.”
“What are you saying?” I whisper.
“Marry me, not as a marriage of convenience. Do me the honor of becoming my wife and give me the chance to make you my world. Give me the chance to meet your every need, to fulfill your every desire, to please your body and mind and soul, to ensure you never lack for anything. Marry me and allow me to make you the center of my actions, my passion, my devotion, my everything. Let me show you we belong together, that we were meant to be together. Marry me tomorrow?—”
“Tomorrow?” I gape at him. “That’s... too soon.”
“Not soon enough for me.”
I begin to shake my head, and his hold on my hand tightens.
"—give me one chance to show you we were meant to be together. One chance, baby, please."
My heart melts in my chest. A tsunami of heat licks up the walls of my pussy. My clit throbs. My nipples swell. Every inch of my body seems to come to life. The chance to be with this man, to be his wife. The chance to experience the connection I felt with him when he made me orgasm. The fact that it feels like more than a physical connection. That it could mean he understands me on an emotional and a spiritual level. That he could be the one. I swallow.
"What do you say?" Tension vibrates off of him. His tone is strained. A vein pops at his temple, and the skin over his cheekbones is stretched. He looks like a man at the end of his tether. Like a man who’d give anything to get what he wants which, in this case, is me. He wants me. He needs me. He’ll do anything for me.
For the first time, it’s not me wanting to take care of someone else, but someone else asking to take care of me. So, will I give him that chance?
28
Quentin
I knock on the door to Felix’s apartment with the hand holding the two tumblers I’d grabbed on the way here. In my other hand I have a bottle of Macallan’s. When there's no answer, I knock again. I have a key to the apartment but I’m not going to use it. Not when I’d promised my son privacy. Doesn’t mean my patience is infinite.
A few seconds pass. Then I raise my hand to knock again, when the door is flung open. Felix stands there with a pair of headphones around his neck. He’s wearing a pair of jeans with holes at the knees and a sweatshirt with the words, “Up yours,’” with the image of a middle finger on it. Very mature. I resist the urge to criticize his attire and clear my throat. “Can I come in?” I ask.
His jaw tightens. He spins around and marches inside. I follow him through the living room and into the bedroom. He heads to the desk pushed up against the wall on the far side and where a computer screen shows a frozen image of an animated soldier firing and the explosions filling the screen, I realize, he’s playing a video game.
It’s as if I’ve walked into a scene from my past—when I returned from a tour of duty to find my son playing Call of Duty in his room. Only that was at Margaret’s place. And this is in my house and my son is ten years older.
Felix drops into his chair. He pulls on his earphones, grabs the game console and begins to play. I walk over and stand next to him. He stiffens but doesn’t take his gaze off the screen. I wait there patiently. Five minutes pass. The first sparks of anger lick my nerve-endings. I bat them aside, then dip into the reserves of patience I have stored inside. The kind I drew on when I had to stay vigilant while staying hidden after setting a trap for the enemy. It was always about who blinked first. Who was going to reach the end of their tether and reveal themselves. I widen my stance and lock my fingers around the bottle of whiskey.
He continues playing for another ten minutes, until there's an explosion on screen. Droplets of blood splatter the screen and it goes fuzzy around the edges. Felix tosses his console aside and tears off his earphones. "The fuck you want?"
He sinks back in his chair and lowers his chin to his chest. His lips are pulled down at the edges, his thin shoulders hunched. He looks petulant and angry and more than a little confused. His thick hair flops over his forehead, and before I can stop myself, I’ve placed the glasses on the desk next to his computer screen, then leaned in and brushed the strands back.
He jerks his chin up and stares at me.
I meet his gaze.
In his eyes, surprise flares, and a hot sensation stabs my chest. My son does not expect to see any gesture of softness from me. That’s how low his expectations are of this relationship. I’m to blame for it, of course. I’ll never forgive myself for not having a relationship with him.
Still, I have his attention now, so I take my gaze off his features long enough to pour the whiskey into both the tumblers. I hand one over to him. He hesitates, then takes it from me. Thank fuck. I raise my glass. Once more he looks like he’s going to refuse me, then clinks his glass with mine. Both of us toss back our drinks.
I brought Vivian home, then coaxed her to return to her room and go to bed. It's going to be an eventful next twenty-four hours, and she needs her rest. She refused, of course, until I ordered her to go. She wasn't able to disobey. Shooting a glare in my direction, she’d retreated, and I came to Felix’s room. It's past midnight, but I knew he’d be up.
"This is fucking good." He holds out the glass and I top him up, then myself.
"Can you talk without swearing?"
"Says the man who uses the four-letter word like it’s his personal talisman."
I deserve that. I clink my glass with his, then wait until he takes a sip. I land a hip against his table. "There’s something I need to tell you."
"She’s marrying you." He stares at his now blank screen as he says it. His features are blank, but for the sheen of tears in his eyes.
