Chapter Fourteen. Ember #4
“At times he did, yes.” Sam stares straight ahead out the windshield.
His jaw clenches even as he easily handles the car.
“But, in his own way, he loved her, too. He fucked around on her, and there’s a part of me that didn’t forgive him for that all the way up to his death.
I couldn’t forgive him for squandering the most perfect, precious gift.
Couldn’t trust him, to a degree, after that.
But still … he loved her right up to the end.
He wouldn’t never have left her, no matter how many other women he had on the side. ”
“That doesn’t make him some hero.”
“No, it doesn’t. It makes him complicated, imperfect, an idiot, and my best friend. Which is another reason I didn’t confess the truth to Kim. It would’ve destroyed my friendship with Marcus.”
I nod, even though I don’t agree with everything he’s said. It doesn’t make a man complicated when he cheats on his sick wife or ignores his only daughter. It just makes him selfish and faithless. And unable—or unwilling—to control his dick.
“Why’re you asking me all of this? Does it have anything to do with why I’m escorting you to your engagement party instead of your fiancé?”
“I didn’t ask you to do it,” I point out rather harshly.
Bitterness coats my tongue, and I try to temper my reaction, but the anger resides too close to the surface. Pain still bubbles beneath my skin. Resentment at even the word fiancé claws at my stomach like a wild thing. Fiancés don’t throw each other to the wolves.
Fiancés protect each other. Trust each other.
Love … each other.
None of that applies here.
“Don’t get defensive, Em.” He reaches out and pats my thigh. “I’m just asking. Did something happen with Prince?”
“We’re fine.” I could tell him the truth, but Sam works for Asad now. And while I believe he would say “fuck Asad” if he had to choose between us, I don’t want to put him in that position.
“He’s not your father, Em,” he quietly says after several moments.
“This whole engagement took me by surprise, and at first, he is not who I would’ve chosen for you, but after some thought, he’s a good choice.
A good man. He’ll protect you, go toe to toe against Michelle for you.
He’d burn all this down for you. I’ve seen how he watches you.
Hold on in there, Em. I think it’ll be worth it in the end. ”
I nod and look out the window, not replying.
I love Sam and respect his opinion—I love him—but his best friend was my father.
He’s blinded in some respects when it comes to questionable people.
Neither he nor I can be lauded for having great taste in people.
His best friend was a trash-ass daddy who valued wealth and power over his own flesh and blood.
My husband-to-be blackmailed me into an engagement by threatening my friends’ lives, and then when I finally, finally lowered my guard and allowed him into a place no one had ever claimed access to, he tortured me in front of his buddies.
No, we’re all good on opinions other than my own over here.
A half hour later, we pull up to the Ebell on Wilshire Boulevard.
LA traffic whizzes by us in a cacophony of loud engines, music, and laughter.
Do I find it ironic and humorous that House of Cross, a company founded and owned by a patriarchal crime family, is hosting its extravagant ball at an iconic building that’s basically a monument to women empowerment? Why yes, yes, I do.
Sam exits the Valkyrie Spider, and I can’t contain my chuckle at the valet’s wide eyes and slacked mouth.
Whatever Sam says to him has his mouth snapping shut.
If I had to guess, I’d assume a threat to his life to not get even a thumbprint on the paint.
The valet vigorously nods as Sam hands him the keys, then rounds the front of the vehicle and opens the passenger door.
He holds his hand out to me and helps me out.
The nerves in my belly twist and writhe. This is it. This is happening.
Sam and I make our way to the Lounge, which is a misnomer.
It’s not a small, shadowed room. Instead, we enter a cavernous yet packed space with soaring, beamed ceilings, floor-to-ceiling arched windows, gleaming hardwood floors, gorgeous chandeliers with lit candles.
We stand at the top of an elegant, luxurious staircase at the mezzanine level where more partygoers gather on balconies to watch the festivities below.
It’s a blur of color, light, and people. Oh so many people.
“Ready, sweetheart?” Sam whispers.
I nod, and as we begin to descend, the noise level in the area lowers. Heads from the mezzanine turn our way and faces below tip back, their attention focused on us.
And almost out of thin air, Asad appears at the bottom of the staircase. We halt; even if I wanted to move, I’m unable to. My muscles refuse to cooperate as I stare at my fiancé for the first time in a week.
And God, I’m not ready. I’m not ready for the sight of him.
He steps out of my darkest, weakest, dirtiest dream—or nightmare—with all that black hair smoothed up into a neat knot at the top of his head.
His thick beard is shaped up, the edges razor-sharp.
It surrounds the mouth that has wrecked me, introduced me to a pleasure that surely God never intended his people to know this side of heaven.
Those beautiful, all-too-perceptive silver eyes sweep over me, from my straightened, dark blond strands to my glass-encased toes.
When his gaze lifts to mine, his is guarded …
but I still glimpse the flare of heat there.
And an answering flame sparks deep and low in my stomach.
This is what he does to me. This is who and what I am to him.
A reaction to his action. The effect to his cause.
I briefly close my eyes, but they don’t stay shut.
It’s as if they open on their own to soak in the rest of him.
The spread of his shoulders and chest underneath the perfectly tailored black tuxedo jacket and white dress shirt.
The edges of black-and-gray ink peek above the collars, and neither the formal wear nor the bow tie can harness the sexual charisma or wildness he literally wears in his skin.
The black pants skim over his trim waist and powerful, thick thighs, and I fidget, squeezing mine together, seeking to assuage the near-painful ache pulsing in my pussy.
It’s been a week since he’s touched me, since I’ve inhaled his decadent scent, since he’s stretched my walls.
Since I’ve screamed his name so loud, so hard, it leaves my throat raw.
I foolishly believed a week’s distance would dampen his impact, his power on me. If “I can show you better than I can tell you” were a person …
“Sam, if you don’t mind, I’ll escort my fiancée from here,” Asad says, his tone not seeking permission but informing him.
He may be speaking to my godfather, but his gaze doesn’t leave me.
Those eyes search mine, as if seeking for the objection or argument he expects me to throw his way.
If we weren’t in front of most of the fashion industry’s royalty and business world, I just might.
But … I wouldn’t embarrass him like that.
Even if he wouldn’t afford me the same courtesy when he damn near cut off one of my fingers.
“I do mind, but all fathers have to give up their daughters someday,” Sam says with a wry smile. He kisses my temple and squeezes my arm before treading down the stairs.
“You look … stunning, Ember,” he quietly says. His arm lifts, his hand hovering near my cheek, but then he blinks and lowers it. Part of me is thankful because I don’t know what his touch would do to me, how it would shake me. But the other half? It already misses something that it didn’t have.
“Thank you.” I part my lips to say something else—anything else to dispel this awkward cocoon we’ve found ourselves in while the world moves on below us. But I’m at a loss. There’s so much I want to say that it all crowds into my head like a BOGO sale, but only “thank you” slips free.
Then he lifts my hand and brushes his lips across my bandaged finger.
A gasp escapes me before I can trap it. The noise silences. And it’s just the two of us in a ballroom full of people. No, it’s three of us. Him, me, and this thick, tangled mess of … emotion that I’m afraid to unravel. Afraid to touch at all …
“Let me guess,” I say, voice even, cool, removing my hand from his grasp and ignoring the tremble. “You’re sorry and you’ll never do it again.”
He stares at me, and it takes a will straight from the ancestors not to look away.
“Not that way, I won’t.”
The threat and promise linger between us as he leads me down the stairs at his side. They settle into my chest and lower, between my thighs, and goddamn, there must be something fundamentally wrong with me.
I want to forgive him. Want to sink into his arms and turn back the clock to the last night we were together on the balcony, in his bed.
But that block of ice right between my rib cage won’t allow me to make that move.
Won’t permit me to do something as foolish as easily believe in his words again.
I’m torn in two, confused, ashamed because I should hate him, but God, I want him.
Crave what that night prematurely promised.
The sensation of all eyes on us has me wanting to swipe at my exposed skin. After so many years of existing in the shadows, being thrust into the spotlight is surreal and disconcerting. And doing so on Asad’s arm only deepens the oddity of it all.