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He’s neither the man who broke my heart nor the man I played cat-and-mouse games with at uni.
Right now, I see a man who tied me up and forced me to swallow whatever poison he jammed down my throat.
The man who looked down at me as if I were a mission he needed to conquer.
Maybe that’s the reason I lost my memory.
Maybe Eli was already successful in destroying my life and the story ended. Or this is the sequel, where the wife is found dead in her bathtub.
He clicks the door shut behind him, the sound echoing around us like a curse. I hold the edge of the marble in a tight grip, tracking his movements through the mirror.
Eli has always been intimidating, but it’s tenfold worse now as he rolls his sleeves to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms.
No idea why he discarded his jacket and is performing this ritual. But for some reason, the image unsettles me.
Warmth floods the base of my stomach, but I turn around, stand tall, and square my shoulders.
“What doIwant?” he repeats my question, still meticulously rolling a sleeve. Everything about Eli is precise, cold, and decisively calculated.
He’s too controlled, too damn emotionless, and yet he exudes a terribly destabilizing sexual energy. Without even trying.
“I should be the one to ask you that, don’t you think?” He steps forward.
I instinctively step back, and my arse slams against the marble counter. The cold shock makes goosebumps erupt on my overheated skin despite my clothes serving as a barrier.
Eli stops a few inches away from me, tall, muscular, and imposing. My air vanishes and I inhale through my tingling nose and trembling lips.
He has no business being so disturbing, but for the first time, he looks as terrifying as the monster from Nan’s stories.
“Care to explain the meaning behind your little stunt just now?”
“What stunt?”
“Wrapping your arms around another man’s neck in my presence.”
“V is my friend.” I’m beyond grateful my voice doesn’t crack under the pressure.
“Vance. His name is Vance.”
“Last I checked, you don’t dictate what I call my friends. As I mentioned earlier, you don’t own me, Eli.”
As soon as the last sentence is out of my mouth, I realize the colossal mistake I’ve made.
His fingers slide up my throat, leaving a war of tingles on my skin before he wraps them around my neck.
It’s not strong enough to choke me, but he exercises the right pressure to forbid me from moving even if I choose to.
My skin throbs beneath the pads of his fingers and I hold my breath, not daring to breathe openly.
“I’ve been more than accommodating. I allowed your pointless rebellions and spoiled-princess behavior. I have turned a blind eye to your attempts to provoke me with every inhale you take and piss me off with every exhale. I have looked the other way when you plotted to infuriate me with every word out of your mouth, but you seem to mistake my tolerance for a green light to indulge in your old repulsive, attention-seeking patterns. It isnot. And I advise you not to mistake my patience for foolishness. The show from earlier is the last time you let another man touch what’s fucking mine. Are we clear?”
His grip tightens with each word, still not suffocating, but it’s engulfing enough to drive every sentence with a punch.
My thoughts are possibly the toxic ingredients of a suicide attempt, especially considering how pissed off he appears. It doesn’t matter how calm and collected he sounds. I feel the lash of his disapproval and his barely concealed rage simmering beneath the surface.
But how dare he threaten me?
After everything he did—and continues to do—to me?
