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She’d just as soon feed me poison than kiss me again. I shouldn’t even want her to kiss me again.
I’m fourteen years older. She’s an unknown variable. We only met last week—when she drugged me and tied me up in her room. And the memory of that entire situation should not be painting itself in a new light.
But I think it might be.
I’m more messed up than I thought if finding myself at the mercy of someone kinder than my parents heals something shattered inside.
My fist closes in my hair. I stare at my computer until the words muddy. Her capabilities are commendable. I can hardly begin to imagine how much planning went into kidnapping me without getting caught. I should have her create a report that outlines The Casa’s security weaknesses.
And…
I cup a hand to my mouth, lean back in my chair, and peer dismally at the ceiling.
For frick’s sake.
Spreadsheets really do turn me on.
I should absolutely not be thinking about asking her to make me more.
My eyes close.
I hate this information with every cell in me.
Flicking my attention to the time once I compose myself again, I discover Briar is nearly an entire half hour late.
Where is she?
As though summoned, in the very next instant, Briar opens my office door and walks in without knocking. At the sight of her, my heart rate kicks me in the ribs, pounding steadily.
I feel like a teenager—a normal teenager. The kind who didn’t spend his free time strapped to a chair choking on the putrid fumes of his own blood, working out until he vomited, and learning not to shake when he plunged a knife into someone.
The fact a woman who looks like a Barbie doll might be right about my emotional immaturity strikes a nerve. She’s wearing all pink today. Tiny white flowers scatter across her tights, and I want to trace them as I pull her legs around my waist. I want to kiss the birthmark beside her frilly bra strap. I want to impose on her mind in the same way she’s invaded mine.
She makes it hard to breathe. So I glare. “You’re late.”
“Am not. I got here on time. I was just talking to Aster.”
For thirty minutes?
Every time I’ve seen Briar and Aster together, it involves staring. Lots of staring. On his part.
If I’d known he was such a louse, I never would have appointed him as my underboss. As it stands. I offered him the position because he joined shortly after my parents vanished. I initiated him myself. He never had a hand in their darker schemes. I’ve never had to question his respect or loyalty or skill.
Not only that, he’s smart and stable in ways that many of my parents’ initiates aren’t.
But, I guess, we all have our weaknesses. And his just happens to be the same as mine.
What were they talking about?
Why does it matter?
Am I going to say something stupid about it because I have the emotional security of a damp rag?
“I guess we’re leaving now?” I say as I stand. Logging out of my computer, I put significant energy into not looking up. I do not want to see the pearl-pink ripples of cloth caressing her skin. I do not want to think about the weapons she has hidden beneath her skirt. And I absolutely do not want to fantasize about removing them from their sheaths or holsters and running the metal gently over her flesh as I unwrap her and unravel her and—
A swear fills my skull as pictures of her in my hands consume me.
I do not think about women like this.
