Chapter Eight
?
…oops.
Azalea
“Die, die, die, die, die, die, die,” I hiss, firm body beneath me, strong neck clutched in my hands.
My nails bite through my gloves and into Malcolm’s flesh as I crush his windpipe, pinning him to one of the two probably filthy beds in this probably filthy hotel room.
He doesn’t struggle as his face splotches crimson and grows darker.
He merely tangles his fists in the comforter on either side of his broad body as his eyes glaze.
Unmistakably, he smiles while he gapes. Then, when he must be close to passing out, his eyes roll back, and a choked whimper escapes him. The low sound shocks my brain back to functioning, and I recall how I got…here.
I lunged on him. My feelings burst free in a scarlet explosion.
There was a flash of heat, and then all sense left my brain, taking with it the knowledge that we’re in a hotel room with hall security cameras proving that we were the only two people who came in here before only one of us could leave.
Sanity returns with that icy understanding, and I jolt, releasing him.
Shaking, he coughs and rakes air into his body, causing mine to move with the tremor of his. Because I’m straddling his hips. Because I am on top of him.
Panic erupts, and I attempt to flee. Before I can scramble off, Malcolm catches my thigh, grips, and welds my body to his. Heaving for breath, pain scattered across his features, he peers up at me with one eye closed.
A coarse swear exits his panting lips, and his grip skates up, higher, then flattens against my back.
“Sir—” I squeak.
He ignores my fragile protest in favor of forcing my chest to his, planting my cheek against his jet-black shirt, suffocating me in the scent of his body wash and detergent.
Whatever masculine combination of aromas creates them, they’re strong.
Strong like his arms, which curl around me now like a snake.
His leather-clad fingers bury in my hair while his breaths regain some semblance of control.
“Love,” he whispers, the word broken and strained.
I shudder as my mind threatens to shut down. I…can’t remember the last time I was hugged. My nerves aren’t handling the sensation very well at all.
Malcolm combs his fingers through my hair, refusing to give me an inch. He barely allows me the leeway to tilt my face up and find the wretched bruises around his throat. They’re building by the moment, getting angrier and angrier, in the shape of my hands.
Fear numbs me.
This is it.
It’s over.
I’m going to be caught. I’m going to be sent to prison.
I can’t escape that fate now. I can’t. Even if I pull out of Junction’s schemes, whatever organization he represents is going to keep trying to kill Malcolm Swallow, and when they succeed, I’ll be a prime suspect because I’ll be a woman who strangled her boss in a hotel room while telling him to die. Repeatedly.
My stomach twists, terror gnawing at it as the frigid touch of reality consumes me.
“I adore you,” Malcolm whispers, like I didn’t very seriously just try to kill him.
His fingers comb through my hair again. “I adore you so much. I want to see all of this. These beautiful, intense emotions of yours.” He swears, voice unbelievably rough.
“I crave it, Azalea. You’re so beautiful.
So precise. So…imprisoned by all these rules you have.
You’re like a glass dove in a packed box, resting in a bed of styrofoam cut exactly to fit you.
You’re motionless and hidden, and I can’t stand it.
I want you on display. I want you shattered.
I want every shimmering piece in my veins. I want you free.”
Free?
Yeah right.
Tone soft and voice small, I whisper, “You just said you own me. Being owned isn’t freedom.”
“It is if you choose it. I want you to pick me with your freedom, dove. I want you to feel safe enough to give me everything. I want your world wide open and limitless. I want you to see me as a tool for your eternity. Enslave me, my darling. Use me. Hurt me. Hold me. Can you not see how obsessed with you I am? If you want me dead, you needn’t burden your own sweet hands.
Merely command me to kill myself.” His hoarse laughter rocks my entire body and echoes in my rattling mind.
“It’s that simple, Azalea.” His fingers trail down my spine in a feather-light caress.
“Oh, darling dove. What wouldn’t I do for you? ”
Make sense.
Clearly, he wouldn’t make sense for me. Because…
absolutely none of this is sensible. He has been horrible to me for two years, and in those two years, I haven’t done anything spectacular enough to warrant affection.
I’ve come to work. I’ve done the job outlined in my employee agreement.
That’s it. The most “endearing” thing I have ever done where it concerns Malcolm Swallow is more “commendable” than anything.
And it is that I have endured his personality while restraining myself day in and out.
That’s it. There’s no reason at all for him to be obsessed or think he’s in love with me, no matter how broken his idea of “love” is.
A low rumble emanates from him, and he nuzzles infuriatingly closer. “That was magical,” he whispers. “I never suspected you’d be the one to initiate.”
Initiate what, exactly? A murder?
Stiff, I remain motionless and mute while I try to ride out the waves of fear as they beat against my brain.
“I wonder…” he murmurs. “Does it go both ways?” His fingers skim my neck before the world shifts, and I find myself planted against the filthy, horrible hotel bed.
Like a dark agent of evil, Malcolm looms and closes his hand around my throat. Gentle delirium in his expression, he watches me as my eyes go wide. Red heats him, and he glows in it above me, painted crimson.
My flesh washes cold as a horrific realization dawns on me.
Choking…is a…thing. A romantic thing. A romantic thing that lunatics partake in. A romantic thing that innocent lunatics partake in for fun—or something—not for premeditated murder.
Maybe…maybe I’m not screwed? Not totally, at least. Not yet.
Even with my handprints on his throat, I can plead romantic insanity still.
I’d just…have to fabricate…romantic interest…in this monster. And then I’d have to make it believable.
With his tattoo of the dove and azaleas on his chest, it might not be that much of a stretch to suggest we’ve been together for a while, especially since it’s healed, which means he got it at least a few months ago.
All I need to do is be believably devastated by his death instead of completely indifferent.
I must act believably heartbroken because I was believably… in love…with him.
My gulp brushes against his palm, and I wait for pressure or payback, but the touch maintains its gentility. It even trembles.
“You’re so pretty, Azalea,” he whispers. “Like the full moon on a clear night. From the moment I met you, you captured my attention and consumed my waking and unwaking world. I’d give anything to know what you’re thinking right now.”
I’m thinking it’s such a bleeding shame Junction hasn’t gotten around to killing you yet. But I obviously can’t say that, so when I crack my lips, what comes out instead is: “Shower.”
“Hm?”
“I need,” I swallow, struggling, “to shower.” Breaths are difficult. “Please.”
His smile warms, and he releases my throat. “Of course.” Sweetly, he pulls back, sitting me up. “I’ll clean it first, then I can start the laundry while you get in. Do you mind if I switch the mattresses for you? I’ll wash my gloves first.”
Feeling off, I glance at the brand-new, plastic-covered mattress.
This unease within me seems entirely separate from that mattress right now.
I’m nearly positive I could pass out on almost anything if given the chance.
In fact, all my usual rules and worries seem so much smaller compared to these new ones closing in.
I’m certain the usual anxiety and fear will return if there’s silence in my skull for even a moment… but right now?
Right now, all I can think about are fingers around throats—crushing his…possessing mine.