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Anissa
I believe him now.
When he talks about his plan, I hear the truth in his words. I acknowledge the determination driving him to take drastic action. I see his conviction.
There’s something deeper, too.
I feel his animosity for Luther, and it resembles the emotions I harbor toward my own father so closely I struggle to fight against the common ground.
What I lack is an understanding of how he can follow through with the crime.
I can’t imagine contemplating the murder of my own flesh and blood. Not cold and premeditated. Not even if my father’s actions meant the punishment was justified. I could never pull that trigger. And I’m not sure I should feel comfortable in the company of someone who can.
But I do.
There’s no fear beating behind my ribs. No shock or devastation.
I want to detest Cole’s plan, but I’m begi
If Luther has local police protecting him, I can’t see a way to bring him down. Not efficiently. Or legally. And every minute ticking by is sixty seconds of torture for those women held captive.
This situation is a moral dilemma for me on i
“Okay,” I murmur. “I’ll do it. I’ll watch. I’ll tell your co
The tightness coiled around him loosens. His shoulders relax. Those muscled arms lose their ferocity.
“That’s not all.” I hold his gaze and show my conviction with the hitch of my chin. “After I’ve held up my end of the bargain, we’re done with this. There’re no more games. No more tormenting or provoking. The stalking has to stop. The flowers and cards, too. We go our separate ways and never speak to each other again. I won’t spend my days trying to take you down, and you won’t spend yours trying to make my life a living hell.”
I need to distance myself from him as much as possible. To flee the confusion his presence brings.
“You want to take back your promise?” His eyes taunt me. The curl of his lips, too. “You were the one who vowed we would spend more time together.”
“Quit the games, Cole. I mean it.” I clutch the counter at my sides and stare him down, feigning strength I don’t have. “I can’t do this if I think you’re still toying with me.”
For long moments he eyes me, stroking my unease with his devilish gaze.
“I agree to your terms.” He steps close, leaning into me as he murmurs, “Being done with you will be a pleasure.”
His response doesn’t fill me with the relief I’d anticipated.
In fact, the tightening pressure nudging into my chest almost feels like rejection.
“Good.” I swallow and freeze in place as his attention locks onto my throat.
The lingering effects of his touch still plague me. The tingle remains from where those fingers wrapped around my neck.
I suppress a shudder. I refuse to give in to the adrenaline sabotaging my system, making me react in uncharacteristic ways.
“I’m going back to my room.” I walk out of the small space, determined not to slink away from his bulky frame when our shoulders brush. “Let me know when I need to be at your beck and call.”
I take another step, only to be halted by his tight grip on my sore arm.
“You’re not up to something, are you?” He narrows his gaze. “Is this sudden agreement a ploy?”
I contemplate provoking him again. The impulse is engrained.
Instead, I bite my tongue, staring deep into those dark ocean eyes. “It’s no ploy, Cole.” I yank my arm away and wince at the bite of pain lashing my shoulder. “I’m well aware my life is in your hands.”
His jaw tics. Anger spikes in his expression.
I fall into confusion, wondering what I’ve done to antagonize him this time when his gaze lowers to my shoulder.
“Show me your injury.”
The sudden change in topic has my mind spi
“Show me,” he demands.
I shake my head and take a backward step.
He counters, lashing out, slinging an arm around my waist to drag me into him.
I’m close. So fucking close. I’m plastered against his muscles, his frustration bearing down on me.
Time. Fucking. Stops.
He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
I’m caught up in those eyes. His scent. His hold.
I’m in the arms of my enemy, and I’m trembling for reasons that bear no resemblance to fear.
“I’m not going to show you, Cole.”
“I thought you would’ve learned by now I’m not a man who appreciates being denied.”
My knees threaten to buckle. My heart feels ready to explode.
Am I imagining the i
“Here.” I snatch at the short sleeve of my T-shirt and tug it down my arm, exposing my shoulder through the stretched neckhole. “It’s a bruise. Now can I go?”
His gaze narrows on the exposed skin. His nostrils flare.
The tight hold around my waist doesn’t loosen. I’m still stuck against his body. Pressed into a wall of hard muscle.
“Just a bruise,” he repeats. “You don’t need pain meds? Or a sling?”
“I don’t need a damn thing from you.”
Well, apart from maybe a phone, a boat ride off this hell hole, a plane ticket home, and a way to circumvent customs without my fucking passport.
The intensity fades from his features. A brutal smile curves his lips. “Not a damn thing?” he repeats with humor in his voice. “I’ll remember that.”
It’s a threat—one that inspires a shiver I’m sure he can feel.
He releases me and I stumble forward into him, before I right myself and lunge back. My flailing triggers the soft rumble of his laughter.
I ignore the infuriating sound as I turn and stride from the walk-in robe.
I drag my feet into his bedroom, escape into the hall, and then into the sanctuary of my own room.
I reclaim my favored position, back against the wall, ass on the carpet, this time right next to the door I leave open.
He doesn’t follow.
I’m left to suffer through a mental rerun of our encounter for long, painful minutes, my breathing rampant until he eventually strides past my room, freshly showered and wearing an impeccable suit.
Maybe I should do the same.
Washing away his touch might clear my head because as it stands, his gentle grip still haunts my skin. But I don’t have the energy to move. I’m exhausted in mind and body. So I sit, listening to the world as time ticks by.
I hear everything—the lapping of the ocean. The whispers of the breeze through the living room curtains. The shuffle of feet and clink of crockery.
The thing I hear most is his voice.
He speaks to Luca, striking a conversation that ignores the tension they’d previously had between them. He doesn’t mention me. There’s no bite of hostility. Not an ounce of the discomfort consuming me.
He discusses inconsequential things. Business back home. The possibility of Hunter’s wedding. A pla
I ignore the words as his rough, deep timbre hums in my ears.
I listen to him for hours wondering where the hell my despised hatred for this man has gone. He doesn’t change the volume of his voice. Not when his phone rings and he speaks to his sister, lying to her about his location.
He doesn’t change his tone as the day draws to a close and he continues his civil conversation with Luca. He doesn’t even quieten his voice when he starts to discuss his father’s upcoming arrival and how Luther won’t be alone. There will be bodyguards.