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Electricity sparked where our skin met, climbing up my arm and into my chest. Desire and confusion and violence waged a war inside me. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to consume every sigh, every moan, and every whispered sound that crawled up her throat. And yet, I wanted to linger there, too—drowning in her scent and the warmth of her presence while snuffing the air from her lungs.

I couldn’t understand it.

“You don’t want to hurt me?” she asked quietly, pressing closer. “Then make me believe you.”

“Take her back to the penthouse,” I clipped and released her to Axell before I changed my mind.

He gripped her arm and forced her toward the exit with quick efficiency. Once the doors swayed shut and guests resumed their conversations, I released a long breath.

Something like relief swept through me.

Perhaps my father gave me Sutton because he suspected I’d kill her before this was over. That was the very reason I told Axell to step in if I were to snap. He was the only one I gave the order to, and I was starting to think it was the best decision I could have made for myself.

I wasn’t sure I could survive without Sutton, because killing her would be the first time I’d ever feel a hint of regret.

14

SUTTON

Fresh coffee sat on my nightstand as morning bled through the curtains. I sat cross legged in the center of my bed, staring at more paperwork and numbers and reports from the casinos. They splayed across my comforter, the papers wrinkled from the heel of my foot as I tapped a pen on my chin.

They had been delivered by Axell this morning before his shift change. I had just made coffee, my hair unruly, and was wearing a short night slip when he’d dropped them in the center of the kitchen island with a thud. Just like every morning, he’d avoided my gaze and walked off.

Not even a hello.

I was invisible.

I’d wondered if Axell would eventually say more than two words to me in passing—something that wasn't a direct order from Manic. Perhaps I should have thanked him for driving me to the penthouse and delivering me from Manic’s heated glare.

After Axell had dropped me off, I’d stayed in my room all night, anticipating Manic to pop in and pin me with more insults. They never came. My door never even locked for the night.

My mind spun, my vision blurring from restless sleep.

I couldn’t focus on numbers or mafia politics or how much money we could clean in such a short span of time. I couldn’t even focus on my father.

No, Manic was at the forefront of my mind.

I hadn’t seen him since I’d exploded—baited him into snapping because he’d pissed me off so much the taunt had spilled out of me without an ounce of restraint. I knew mentions of his family would likely send him over the edge, and I did it anyway.

I’d slowly begun to gauge how he ticked and what set him off. It was when he’d almost snapped in the club’s hallway, lost to the darkness of his own mind, that I knew I was on the cusp of figuring him out.

Was it a tactic I was proud of? Not really, but it worked.

Yet even though he brought out that side of me, guilt had seeped its way into my chest. It stayed there all night, and I’d tossed and turned until the pinks of sunrise reflected off the windows. For the first time since meeting Manic, I regretted what I’d said.

He liked control, and I’d stripped him of it. I’d thrown his father and the death of his mother in his face like he didn’t have feelings or emotions.

Maybe, in my own twisted way, I wanted to see if he did.

Truthfully, I expected his anger, but it was his explosive reaction that made me wonder what had happened to his family years ago. I’d stoked the fire I didn’t know was simmering beneath the surface.

I’d recognized the guilt in his eyes—that hollowness. It was the same feeling that threatened to pull me under on my worst days. Maybe we did have more in common than I thought.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I yawned before taking another sip from the ceramic mug. The coffee was hot and bitter and nothing like the iced-latte’s he made me every morning. A sourness coated my tongue, one of hurt and anger. I set the mug back down with a hard thud, my nostrils flaring from the memory.

Your first mistake was trusting me.

His words circled my thoughts, over and over and over. He was right; I shouldn’t have trusted my kidnapper to give me my stalker’s name, and I was a fool to think otherwise. Knowing Manic, I should have expected it. The fact that I had hoped for an answer at all made me feel entirely too stupid.