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His hands snake around me, one hand on my hip while the other grips my hair. He’s smiling, eyes soft, and I think for a flash that he’ll make this bad feeling go away when a sharp hiss escapes me. With my hair wound tight around his fist, he yanks my head back so hard that tears gather, and fear settles over my limbs.
Lane has never hurt me, but I’m not feeling safe anymore. I don’t trust him, and that dangerous edge he’s been teetering on between obsession and unhealthy sends chills down my spine.
One day he’s sweet. The next, he treats me as though I’m an enemy.
He’s nothing like the man I began seeing two years ago.
“Where the fuck were you?”
“You’re hurting me.” My voice is steady, eyes on his, unwavering. Because you don’t back down from an aggressor. You don’t show fear or weakness. “Let go, and get out.”
A dark chuckle leaves him, his fingers tightening, and I feel as strands of hair are pulled from their follicles. His other hand leaves my hip and sweeps across my cheek in a caress. “You don’t know what pain is, princess.”
That’s when the scent of alcohol greets me—when I notice the bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothing.
“Get out and leave. Don’t force my hand,” I hiss out, heart beating fast while I walk us backward three steps. There’s an empty wine glass on the counter and a gun that I keep inside the entry table; if I could just get to—
Blinding pain sears my right cheek and eye, the impact forcing my head to the side, but his hold only forces me back. His eyes are angry, not even a hint of the man I thought I knew and cared for.
Another point of contention between us:
He loves me, but I don’t reciprocate. Those words have never passed through my lips, and it angers him. More reason to call it quits. I should have never waited so long.
“If I ask you again, you won’t like the outcome.”
“At work.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“It’s the truth.” I’m calm—almost chilling—as Lane lowers his face to mine, lips hovering. The stench of liquor is near nauseating, and his touch makes my skin crawl. “Ask Malcolm if you don’t believe me.”
“Malcolm,” he spits out with so much venom, spittle flying over my lips and chin. “That son of a bitch would lie for his slutty little cousin. He’s as much of a bitch as you are.”
Ignore the insult. I repeat this in my head a few times, remembering all the lessons drilled into my head since the age of ten by my uncle, even though my father, his brother, didn’t think it was necessary:
Breathe.
Don’t underestimate your aggressor.
Kill without mercy.
Taking in a steadying breath, I let it out slowly while keeping my eyes locked on his. “You knew we had to finalize everything for the Rivera De Leon family. Why are you being like this?”
“Who is Ivan? Why is he sending you a gift basket?” Lane releases my hair, and I relax a bit—then choke. His fingers tighten around my throat, cutting off the air while my fingernails dig into his skin.
He hisses but doesn’t let go. My vision gets a bit hazy behind my tears, but I don’t cave. I’ve been groomed all my life to defend myself when the time came, and it always would.
You don’t escape our world unscathed.
I take another step back and he follows, unwilling to release his hold. Another, and he brings his hand down across my other cheek, catching the corner of my mouth and breaking the skin. The metallic taste fills my mouth. The flash of pain almost makes me stumble, but I regain myself and take two more steps back.
And on that final move back, Lane slams me into the counter, the force knocking over the bottle and emptying its contents all around us. It breaks in half, the top slicing my arm and I grit my teeth, holding back the pain.
I grab the sharp glass and wrap my fingers around the unbroken opening.
He doesn’t see it. Lane’s too busy breathing hard against my neck, right below my chin where he’s pressing his lips, a complete contrast to his other actions.
His lips part and the kiss is tender. Almost worshipping.
