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CHAPTER 25
JASMINE
Mr. Tuxedo rubs against my leg as soon as I walk into my apartment. His back arches as he purrs against me. Reaching down, I pet his soft fur before throwing my bag into my room. Do I want Easton? Yes. Sadly, I do. After all this time. But, what? I am just supposed to let him back into my life? No. He isn’t going to skip the whole groveling part of this ordeal. If he truly loves me, he’d have to show me. He can’t just force me to take him back. That’s not how life works. For the first time in his life, he is going to have to work for it.
My phone vibrates as a message appears from a name I haven’t seen flash across my phone screen for a while.
Easton: Better run and hide, baby.I’m coming for you.
Sighing, I toss the phone on the counter. He cannot get in my apartment without my permission. Benny won’t even allow him in. Frowning, I realize Benny is old and it wouldn’t take much to move him. If Easton hurts him, I would never forgive him.What a mess. All because I went home. I wonder—if I never would have seen him, would he have moved on? Did he even think about me before I positioned myself in front of him? He hasn’t approached me the whole time we went to school here.
He was so broken the last time I saw him.
“Easton,” I call out, cap and gown still on from the ceremony as I rush after him. I couldn’t just let him go. I truly love the cold-hearted man with the mesmerizing hazel eyes.
He stops, his body stiff as he turns around to face me. Longing flashes in his eyes before he masks it with hatred. We always went back to hatred. Stopping in front of him, I take in his unzipped gown and abandoned cap. “What?” he snaps.
I flinch, taking a step back. “I, um,” I stutter as I try to get the words out. “I just wanted to say congratulations.” I look to the ground as he stays quiet.
He sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “Jasmine, just leave me alone. You’ve hurt me enough. Just stop digging the knife in deeper.” He sounds so broken. So weak. It makes my own heart hurt that I have done this to him.
I look up to him with blurry eyes. When his eyes connect with mine, I see his vulnerability. “But I love you,” I whisper sadly.
His fist clenches as he stares into my eyes. “Yeah, baby. You’re just a little too late.” With that, he leaves, leaving me a shattering mess on the sidewalk as I watch him fade away.
Coming back from the memory, I get mad. I tried. I’m the one who fought, and he walked away.
They say time heals all wounds, but this one cuts as deep as the day it happened. Now that I know why he was so upset, it eases the anger a bit. I understand the hurt of rejection, but I was just doing what I had to do. Still, he can’t just swoop back into my life like this.
I lay on my bed, pulling out a t-shirt. His shirt, the one he put me in that time in my bedroom. I had kept it and only wore it when I knew he wasn’t coming over. I never wanted him to see how much I truly liked him then. Ever since I left home to start a new life, I slept in his shirt. It has a bleach stain from the first time I cleaned it, the lettering is faded, and it looks old and worn. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but if I try hard enough, I can almost get a tiny hint of his scent. I am in denial, I know that. I know I’ll eventually break down and take him back. But I owe it to myself to at least fight this until he can prove himself to me. I deserve to be cherished. Shown that I am worthy. That I am worth more than the life I was given so far.
Poor Jasmine.
You’re damn fucking right.
* * *
When I wake up, it’s to strong, warm arms wrapped around me. The familiar scent of weed, sandalwood, and something completely Easton envelops me. I snuggle in deeper to him before my brain catches up and I jump out of bed. His eyes crack open as he rises up. “How did you get into my apartment?” I screech.
“I live in this apartment building. Our families own it. It didn’t take anything to get a key,” he replies, yawning and stretching as he gets up.
“Well, get out. I don’t want you here. I’m pretty sure leaving was the first clue, you psycho.” I look him over. His cock thick behind his joggers. His chest, arms, and abs have gotten even more delicious since high school. Even this whole five-o’clock shadow he has going on is insanely hot. I roam his body greedily with my eyes, as if it’s the first time I’m seeing him. From his bare feet all the way to his smirking lips, ending with those hypnotizing hazel eyes.
“You say you don’t want me, but I come here and find you in my old t-shirt, your eyes watching me with your lust-filled gaze. Your body and mind betray you, baby.” His voice is low, thick with sleep, sending goosebumps all over my skin and heat to my core. “There is no escaping me. You were built for me and I’m the idiot that let you go. Except, I never really did. Trust me,” he says, throwing his hands up. “I tried. I tried to forget you. But even though you haven’t seen me, I’ve watched you, from afar. Out of sight. Told myself as long as I wasn’t touching you it was fine. I could move on.” He moves closer to me, pressing me against the wall, caging me in. My breathing turns ragged. Our bodies against one another’s as our hearts beat out of our chests, desperate to touch. “But the thing about my love? It’s ruthless. It knows no boundaries. And the thing about me? I love irrationally. With my whole fucking soul.” His lips get closer. “So, fight this. Fight us, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
I look up to his lips before meeting his eyes. “I’m not going to let you break me again,” I whisper, lips barely brushing his, but it is enough to send shock waves through my body.
“I’m not going to hurt you again.” His eyes are hooded with lust, sincerity coating every word.
“Prove it,” I whisper.
A chuckle leaves his mouth. “Oh, I fully intend to.” Then he pushes off the wall, stalking over and grabbing his shoes. “Be ready by seven. I’m taking you on that fucking date.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left with my mouth wide open. And that’s how I find myself going on a date with my heartless prince. Again.
* * *
I’m in my spare bedroom. The floor is covered in a drop cloth, the shelves littered with paint and brushes. An easel stands next to the large window overlooking the city. I’m perched on my stool, swiping my brush in short strokes as I paint a dragon coming out of a man's mouth. The dragon is black with a swirl of fire in his eyes. The man's arms are thrown back, his body arched and his mouth open as the dragon bursts from the smoke coming out of his mouth. I stare at the painting, wondering why I can’t paint flowers or something remotely normal. Why does it have to be so morbid all the time?
