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There are other ways to get what I want. And what I want is for Clara Everett to beg me for a chance to make things right…
And the pleasure of telling her it’s too damn late.
24
CLARA
It’s been days since I lost my shit on Demyen.
Part of me wishes I never went off on him like that.
Another part of me feels lighter. Relieved. Vindicated.
He has no idea what he’s asking—demanding, really—me to do. But how could he? I’m in no mood to tell him what I’ve only just figured out for myself. What I’m still struggling to grasp in the middle of all this heartache and bullshit.
Because that’s exactly what it is. It’s painful heartache and total bullshit.
And keeping my pregnancy from him is about the only card in my deck left to play.
I’ve just put Willow down for bed. She’s still trying to process all the changes, and it continues to break my heart to see her so sad, so confused, and so betrayed. She doesn’t understand why Demyen doesn’t want to be her friend anymore. She doesn’t understand why she can’t be in her old room.
I wish, so much, that I could do the understanding for her. But I can’t.
I’m sitting in my usual corner of my room, waiting for sleep to knock me out because my mind won’t stop running a mile a minute, when the door opens.
It’s Demyen.
And Ihatehow my heart skips with excitement as if I actually want to see him.
He’s clutching fabric in one hand and gripping the doorknob with the other. “Get dressed. We’re going to a thing.” He tosses the fabric onto the unused bed.
“A ‘thing’?”
“A black tie event. You’re coming with me as my date.”
Stupid heart. It skips again, and I have to suffocate it with my brain’s reminders that Demyen hates me. That there’s no way I’m actually going to be his “date” in a romantic sense.
I eye the fabric now pooled on the bed. It’s a soft, pale pink, almost a champagne color, and looks like it’s made of the most delicate silk and accented with diamonds.
He either wants me to dress like a queen or a whore, and either way—I have a feeling I’m fucked.
“Do I have an option?” I’m stupid enough to ask.
Demyen narrows his gaze at me. “No.”
“What about?—”
“Bambi will be here to watch over Willow. As will several of my men.”
There’s no warmth in his voice when he says it. Not like there used to be—reassurances that no matter how haywire my nerves may be, he’s always going to keep Willow safe and sound and away from her monsters.
Now, he makes it sound more like a threat. As in, “Do what I say or the kid gets it.”
My heart breaks again—as if there was any of it left to shatter. I have to hope and pray that some part of him still cares enough for Willow that he won’t do anything to her, regardless of how he feels about me.
“Dem—”
“You have one hour.”
