Chapter 25
He turns around and sees me battling the strap strangling my ankle.
“I can’t walk faster in these fucking shoes.”
He curses under his breath and steps up to me. Then he crouches, tears the straps open, frees my feet, and scoops up the shoes.
“What are you doing?”
“We need to move, princess,” he says dryly.
With one sharp motion, he hauls me up in his arm, carrying me princess-style. My arms latch around his neck, while his grip stays firm.
“What are you—”
“Complain later,” he mutters, already striding ahead.
The drive back feels long and painfully awkward. We don’t exchange a single word, not even a glance in the mirror. The car fills with an unpleasant silence that presses in from all sides. He didn’t turn the radio on this time, and somehow that makes it worse.
Ugh …
A flood of emotions churns in me, swallowing me whole. Anger, jealousy, pride, plus a hundred more I didn’t know existed or that I was even capable of feeling.
He fucking smiled at her.
Why did he smile at her?
But he did—broadly, even. Flashing that gorgeous smile I thought was mine. Why would I think that?
And he let her touch him.
It wasn’t even a real touch. Damn it, it was barely a brush, a stupid little moment no sane person would care about. But it set something off in me, so ridiculous, yet so impossible to reason with.
I mean … what even was that?
Her fingers on his arm for half a second, and suddenly my brain is melting like I’ve been dropped in acid.
Ugh. He can put his hands on whoever he wants. Obviously. Why wouldn’t he? I don’t own him. I don’t even want to own him. Do I?
No. No, that’s insane.
And yet …
I can feel it crawling under my skin, this stupid, pointless, baseless need.
He’s not allowed to lay a finger on me because, according to my dear father, I’m some sort of endangered species, strictly hands-off.
So why does it feel wrong imagining his hands on anyone else?
Why does that thought make my pulse spike like I’m losing something I never even had?
God, what is wrong with me?
Why do I care?
Why do I care so much?
Why do I care at all?
We get home before I even register it. I wasn’t paying attention to the road at all.
As always, he circles the car, opens my door, and offers me his hand. My eyes stay on his a moment too long, before I shove his hand away and climb out on my own, heading for the house barefoot.
I feel shattered. Pathetic, maybe. Spoiled? Probably.
But right now, I don’t care. Not even a little.
Inside, the staff stare at me silently, as if I’ve come out of a horror movie. Typical. I hope my parents are already asleep—or gone for good—and I won’t run into them.
Father dragged me to meet that old relic for some grand purpose I was never deemed worthy of hearing, and of course the whole thing imploded for yet another reason I’m apparently not allowed to know.
Because in this charming little universe, I’m not supposed to be spoken to, touched, or informed about anything that involves me.
It’s almost funny, being treated like classified material in my own life. Or whatever the hell that means.
When I reach my room, the door shuts behind me, and somehow, the sound only sharpens the mess inside my chest.
Is this despair?
At least my parents are nowhere to be seen.
“Now what?” I mumble to myself, letting out a long exhale.
Suddenly, the door opens, making me jolt in surprise.
“Ever heard of knocking?”
It’s him. And yeah, he walked in like the place belonged to him.
I should be pissed that he didn’t knock, that he just strolled into my space.
But the messed-up part is that I’m not. I’m just annoyed that I actually care he’s here, and I’m trying way too hard not to let him see it.
Hell, I’m practically begging for his attention while trying to look mentally healthy. Pathetic, right?
“You forgot these,” he says calmly, handing me my sandals.
“They’re torn anyway.”
“I tried to fix them a little, but I’m afraid you’ll need a new pair.” He holds them out to me again.
He did what?
I can’t understand this man. One moment he’s a savage, tearing into anyone who so much as glances my way, and the next he’s acting like he’s the only one who knows how to be gentle with me.
One minute he looks at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted, and the next he smothers it under that cold “just doing my job” line.
I’m losing my mind trying to figure out which version of him is real, or if I’m just stupid enough to want both.
I’m stuck in between, desperate enough to want the savage and the gentle parts of him, because I don’t know which one is the lie, or if the lie is thinking I can walk away from either.
But then I remember every jealous twist he’s dragged out of me not so long ago.
“You can just throw them away,” I grumble, turning my back on him before he can see how much it actually gets to me.
“Is there something wrong?”
“What the hell was that tonight?” I spit, unable to hold myself, spinning around to face him.
“Relax, little orchid,” he jeers, flashing that smug side smirk of his. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“I don’t mean about the grenade.”
“Then what?”
I rake a hand through my hair, my eyes landing on the ground. What am I supposed to say to him? That I felt possessive over a situation I have no claim over?
“Do you like women like her?” The words slip out before I can hold them.
“What?”
“It’s a simple question, Mitch,” I snap, my anger boiling over.
His brows furrow in obvious confusion. “… What?”
“I saw you back there.” I cross my arms, raising my chin defiantly. “It was the only time you smiled during the night.”
God, I am making a fool out of myself, I know, but this jealousy, this unfairness that I feel in my throat, is something I can’t overcome.
He lets out a soft, mocking chuckle, his eyes roaming all over the room but me.
Fottuto stronzo … Fucking asshole …
He’s mine. Mine! My bodyguard, my employee, my shadow.
He doesn’t get to drift away from me, not even for a second.
I should be the only thing in his head, the only thing pulling at his attention.
I should be the center of his damn universe, the thought he wakes up with, the obsession he can’t shake.
He’s supposed to live for me.
Worry for me.
Breathe for me.
And the idea that his attention might drift, even for a moment, makes something vicious coil tight in my chest. I need him bound to me, claiming me as fiercely as I claim him.
Because if he isn’t circling around me, if he isn’t mine every second, I feel like I’m unraveling.
“Why the fuck won’t you answer me?”
“Why the fuck are you acting like a spoiled brat?” he hisses, his voice disturbingly calm as his dark eyes return to mine.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I bite out. “Did my existence ruin your horny fantasy where you’re a manwhore who’ll just drop his standards for anyone who sways their ass at you?”
He bursts into laughter. “You think I’m a manwhore?”
“Yes!” I hiss, eyes wide. “And stop laughing!”
He straightens his face, trying to suppress the snide grin he clearly didn’t mean to show.
“You’re so amusing, little orchid,” he says, crossing his arms.
There it is again. The softness he tries to pass off as nothing. The so-called concern he keeps dangling in front of me, and of course, the damn nickname I’m stupidly attached to.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“What am I doing?” he asks, raising one brow, clearly confused.
My breathing turns tight, rage simmering low in my chest. I stay quiet. I know if I keep talking, I’ll just make a bigger idiot of myself. After all, I clearly mean nothing to him. He’d rather chase after that bitch with the apricot-shaped ass.
He steps closer … then closer, until he’s only inches from me, his eyes dragging over my face. And just like that, I’m weak again. My knees threaten to give out, and all I can think about is his body. He’s so close it’s pathetic how badly I want him.
He looms over me for a few long seconds, neither of us daring to break the silence. His chiseled jaw twitches.
“Lock your door tonight, Isabella,” he says, calm as ever.
Defeated, I simply nod, my eyes dropping to the ground, or anywhere away from his.
As he turns his back to leave, something claws up my throat. An impossible, frantic urge to keep him here. My ego flares, twisting tight around my ribs. He’s mine. He’s mine, and the thought of him walking away feels wrong in a way that isn’t entirely sane. He should know it. He should feel it.
“Before you go …” I clear my throat. “Help me unzip this,” I say bravely, turning my back to him.
“Can’t you do it yourself?”
“I can, but I want you to do it.”
He exhales, his eyes fixated on mine through the mirror. “I shouldn’t lay a hand on you, you know that, right?”
I shrug, unbothered.
He steps closer to me again and leans in, until his lips brush the shell of my ear. “But I’ve never been good at doing what I should.”
The zipper slides down excruciatingly slowly, each inch sending a shiver up my arms. And once again, I can’t tell which version of him is standing behind me. The guardian, the monster, or the man who looks at me like he wants to swallow the world just to taste my skin?
I shove the dress off my hips and let it hit the floor, standing there in nothing but my lace thong. His stare hits me instantly. In the mirror, I watch his eyes darken.
“And what about now?” I ask softly, struggling to hold my voice still. “What are you going to do?”
“Put it back on,” he orders.
I turn around, facing him, and rest my hands on his firm torso.
“Don’t you like me like this?” I purr, loosening his tie.
His chest heaves faster, as if he’s struggling to breathe. I slip off his blazer, savoring the hunger in his eyes as he stands there, frozen, eager, anticipating what’s coming next.