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A vein thrums in my temple. Goddamn Milo.
“Let me worry about those.” On the outside, my façade is icy. On the inside, a storm begins to rage. “Come.”
I grip Leighton’s hand, tugging her out of the room. She’s silent. Obedient.
Doing her best to fool me.
“Sit down.” I escort her to an armchair—the therapy couch will come later. Then I move around the room, switching on the floor lamp beside her. “Be a good girl, Leighton—”
“And stay here, yes, yes. I get how this works.” She smooths the shirt, pulling it over her thighs. “I won’t talk, though. You can forget about that.”
Ignoring her taunting, my gaze fixates on her hands that she wrings in her lap. On how she shakes her head lightly and her pink hair falls on her front, right over her breasts.
She’s hiding from me. Covering up what’s mine.
My jealousy and possessiveness reach an all-time high. I bend, brushing every single strand behind her back. Push each of her hands to her sides and shove her shirt up her thighs.
“Leighton June Irvine.” My fingers clasp on her chin, my face inches from hers. “Be a brat all you fucking want. Do your best. I can take it. But you will bend for me. You’re already broken. Now, we have to put you back together again. Help you be that woman who wanted me so bad she risked getting caught masturbating in my hallway.”
“You had her. I’d been her,” she whispers. “Until you kidnapped me.”
“No, you hadn’t.” My heart twinges at her dried lips. I dip my tongue out, wetting them, devouring the moan she’s struggling to keep buried. “You’ve given up on us. There, in my garage. I couldn’t take a…”
Chance. A motherfucking chance of you being killed.
Another surge of anger pulsates through me. I’m more than her savior. I’m her lover. She has to realize that first.
Victory gleams in her eyes. She knows I talked too much. “Take what?”
“I took you to show you where and to whom you belong.” I storm out of the room.
“You said no lying.” Her voice carries behind me.
Technically, I’m not lying to her. I’ve been feeding Leighton partial, uncomfortable truths. Which I’ll do more of. Still do.
When I reach the kitchen, I remove the plate of ravioli from the oven. The food’s still warm. The scent of her favorite filling—ricotta cheese, spinach, nutmeg, and black pepper—reaches me as soon as I peel off the foil.
Next, I grab a water bottle, unsnap the top, and dump a paper straw inside before returning to my study.
I pace myself when I get back to her. I’m on edge. The hate for Milo and whatever the fuck he did to her burns strong. I have to control myself.
Sucking in a deep breath, I linger in the doorway. “You stayed where you are. Very good, little doll.”
She doesn’t bother masking her hunger anymore. Her tongue swipes across her lips, her body leaning forward. My insides churn. The violence from within begs me to rip the T-shirt off her and fuck the truth out of her.
Fuck food. Fuck everything.
No. No. I have a plan. Projecting my anger toward Milo onto her would be wrong.
Tonight, she’s my patient.
After placing the plate and water on the end table between the two armchairs, I take a seat.
“Afternoon.”
The change in my attitude has her eyebrows flying up her forehead.
Good.
