Page 69 of Last Man Standing

“But this is my bathroom,” he teases. “My bedroom. My house.”

“And you brought me against my will, so you don’t get to act like I begged to come here! Get the hell out.” I push again, and this time, at least, he takes a step back. “You’ve had the mommy-and-me reunion already. I know you missed her, so why the hell aren’t you up her ass already? Maybe she needs you to stroke her hair or some shit.”

Instead of the bad mood I’d intended to trigger, all he does is laugh in my damn face. “That was a nice try, Princess. But I don’t stroke my mom’s hair anymore. I stopped way back at my last birthday.”

“Get out!” I shove as hard as I can manage and swing my arm out to grab… to grab… I search by touch and close my fingers around nothing. “Your bathroom doesn’t even have a door?”

“My private bedroom,” he snickers. “My private bathroom. Never needed a door in the past, considering no one came into my room without my thumbprint or a four-digit passcode.” He lifts his chin that way he does, infuriating and smug. “Call your brother and bitch about how horrible I am yet?”

“Nope! But I was planning to do it first thing this morning. Can I get my phone back yet?”

“Nope.” He retreats and brings his hand to his jaw, rubbing the coarse stubble like he thinks it’ll hide his annoying smile. “But you still have access to the outside world using my phone. Your text history and contacts have been transferred across, which means you get to pick up where you left off.” Finally, his eyes narrow. “You didn’t even tell him we’re here yet?”

“I texted him last night,” I snarl. “Told him I was alive.”

“Tell him where we are?” he growls right back. “Did you fuck up already, Scarlett?”

“I told him we were at your mother’s house somewhere in the ass-crack of Delaware or some shit. I told him I counted forty-seven soldiers, all carrying high-powered weapons.” No, I didn’t. “And how your mom is directly responsible for your shitty attitude, since it clearly runs in the family.” Yeah. I said that bit. “I texted Detective Mills, too.”

His eyes tighten to feral slits.

“Told him we moved, and that I was safe. Informed him I’ve somehow landed myself in another abusive relationship, but he needn’t worry, because I learned this cool new trick where I’d take a knife and plunge it into a man’s eyeball. Dig that blade in nice and deep. Give it a wiggle until he starts talking another language.” I flash a wild grin and make a plan to find a knife. Soon. And maybe a bathroom door if I can manage it. “Wanna test me, Boot?”

“Testing you has become my new favorite way to start my day. Every fuckin’ day of my life.” Smirking, he looks down at my chest and licks his lips. “Your nipples go hard when you argue with me, by the way. It’s delicious.”

Stunned, I slap my palms over my breasts and loathe the hot sting of tears on the backs of my eyes. “You’re deplorable.”

“And you get hot bickering with me.” He turns away and whistles under his breath, like the dark, detailed ink on his back doesn’t steal my breath and turn my brain to mush.

A warrior stands proud against his skin, his helmeted head at the base of Sebastion’s neck, while the warrior’s feet and the tip of his sword extend all the way to the waistband of Sebastion’s pants. He wears thick armor and carries a shield on his back. Another on his arm. Skulls litter the ground at his feet, while a smoking war zone suffers in the background. Buildings have collapsed under the weight of battle, all but one tree has fallen, and men lie dead.

But not him. Not the warrior.

He’s the last man standing.

“You’re staring, Princess, and your objectification hurts my feelings.” He stops in front of the bed and peeks over his shoulder, his eyes dancing with torment, while his lips curl into a smug grin. “Unless you wanna fuck. In which case, do what you’ve gotta do. I have never in the history of my life had hurt feelings while a woman had my cock in her mouth.”

Growling under my breath, I spin on my heels and instinctively reach out to grab the door. To slam the damn thing. To punctuate my mood with the crack of wood against wood.

The fact I can’t only makes me angrier.

Maybe you should text Serena! I scream in my head. She offered to suck your cock twice last night.

Asshole.

23

SCARLETT

IF IT QUACKS LIKE A DUCK, IT’S PROBABLY A DUCK

“You’re doing okay, aren’t you, Scar?”

Lincoln’s voice plays through my ear, his comforting tone a stark contrast to the voices I’ve heard inside this house. From Sebastion’s crass remarks, to Arabella’s pure contempt. Paul’s commanding ‘sit down’, and now the orders being barked in the yard about fifty feet from my perch in Sebastion’s bedroom window.

It’s mid-morning, the sun is up, glittering snow settles on the ground and acts as a mirror to reflect the sunlight back at anyone with a pair of eyes, and soldiers, dozens and dozens of them, stand in lines of ten, rows of ten. Every time Sebastion orders it, they drop to their bellies, their hands glowing red from the cold, their clothes soaked through from melted snow, and still, sweat dribbles from their brows. Each time Sebastion nods, they do a pushup, pop to their feet, and reach for the sky.

Then they repeat.