Chapter Fifteen
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Maybe someday I’ll unpack being attracted to a woman willing to stab me. But not today.
Malcolm
So. Azalea still hates me, I guess. In a very big way.
She said absolutely nothing as Anthony came up behind me.
Worse, she smiled. I’ve only seen that precious, perfect little smile of hers once before.
Through the camera I planted on Anthony when I sent him to “recruit her to kill me.” The idea of me being dead really makes her happy, doesn’t it?
That stings. A bit.
It definitely stings worse than having the wind knocked out of me as Anthony slams my back into this alley wall and tries to make it look like he’s fighting to get a knife in my throat.
Standing at the entrance to the alleyway he pulled me in to, Azalea watches, palms to her cheeks in mock horror. She looks like an alien attempting to replicate a human emotion. She’s actually the worst actress I’ve ever met in my life, which makes me infinitely glad this entire thing is a ruse.
Were she actually a part of a scheme to kill someone, she’d be caught and locked up immediately.
Using the fuel of my disappointment that nothing over the past few weeks has come close to changing my dear dove’s mind about wanting me dead, I turn the tables on Anthony and slam him against the brick wall. His knife launches from his hand and skitters across the cement toward…
My muscles stiffen as both Anthony’s and my attention shoot after the weapon, which is now lying unassumingly at Azalea’s feet.
Her cartoonishly shocked eyes widen on it, and she blinks.
Anthony and I meet gazes, communicating concerns via looks alone considering all I can see are his eyes within his ski mask. He cuts his attention up the alley and away from Azalea. I provide an imperceptible nod, because, yes, it would be best if he flees now, before things get worse.
Oh no. So sad. Another assassination attempt failed.
Azalea opens her purse, removes a Lysol wipe from a plastic bag, then bends down.
Yep. That’s our cue.
Time’s up.
Anthony loosens his grip, so I can get the upper hand.
Azalea—nose wrinkled—wipes down the handle of the knife.
I get a believable strike in, sending Anthony to the ground. He scrambles upright and makes to bolt right as Azalea tests her grip on the weapon and begins her advance.
Heaving breath as Anthony darts, I twist on my heel an instant before my beloved can plunge cold steel into my back.
Adorably, she squeaks. Whites of her eyes massive, she looks between me and Anthony as he disappears from the alleyway behind me.
I stare at her.
She tenses, offering the knife. “I was going to give you this,” she states, as though disappointment isn’t rampant in her tone. Both her face and voice flatten. “But I guess I was too late.”
Oh darling. Do try and sound more disappointed.
With a sigh, I avoid the blade and sweep her into my arms.
A gurgled protest escapes her, but I hold tight anyway, listening to the sound of metal hitting the ground once again.
“Si—” She vibrates, limbs jerky as panic fills her. “Cro—” Breaths harsh, wetness grips her. “Malcolm.” Pleading dampens her resolve. “Please. You’re…”
“Alive.”
She whimpers, though whether it’s because I’m alive or dirty and touching her is anyone’s guess.
It’s honestly most likely both.
Finding the strength to be mildly benevolent, I release her, staring down as she caves in on herself.
Benevolence abandons me at the sight, and I fit a dirty, but gloved, hand to her face.
She rakes in air. Her eyes squeeze shut, tears building at the corners.
My strength dissipates. My mouth goes dry.
“Please,” she whispers, as though I’m the one willing to stab her.
Well…
Apparently, I’m willing to do far worse.
Lifting her face, I lean in, freezing only when her bright blue eyes squint open in the shadows. A tear falls, painting her cheek in a lovely shimmer of dampness and desperation. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
And I…
I…should have let her kill me.
I should have embraced the cold steel.
I should have faced the consequences of my own actions gladly. For her sake.
Weak, I collapse, slowly, knees hitting the ground at her feet as my touch skates from her face, down her neck, across her side to tangle in the skirt of her dress.
Defeated, I plant my forehead against her stomach and stare at her shoes—battling for control, stability, calm. My heart can’t handle this.
I want her so badly it hurts, but I can’t make her want me like this. I cannot let her think for even a moment that what I want from her is something as superficial as touch. I need her soul. I need the fragments in my veins so that our blood might mingle.
I need this woman, the first woman I’ve ever met who makes sense to me, to be mine. Completely. Irrevocably.
“Sorry.” I swallow, wet my lips. “I love you. Are you…okay?”
She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t move.
I lift my chin and find her stricken expression fixed down, on me. Breathy, she whispers, “You almost died. Why would me being okay matter?”
Because I almost kissed you. While you were crying. Because sick parts of me reveled in the idea of making you break that much further. “I’m touching you with dirty hands.”
Blanched, her flesh pales so severely it melds with her clothes. “After something like this, isn’t seeking human comfort normal? Especially…from a significant other?”
“Probably.” I offer her a frail smile. “But we both already know that our relationship isn’t normal. You’re in it to answer questions about why I affect you so deeply, to level the power balance between us, and to pay me back for everything I’ve put you through.”
“And you’re in it to torment me. Somehow. Because it’s just another one of your insipid games. Because I’m not worth being with.”
“Is that what you think?”
Her shaking hands close into fists. “That’s what I know.”
Her eyes harden, and I can read decades of lies in them. Decades of times her brain has convinced her she’s wrong, or bad, or not enough.
Oh, precious girl. “I love you.”
Her face contorts. “The more you say that, the less I believe it. If you really loved me, it’d be harder to say.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Stop saying that,” she hisses. “It’s like you’re trying to get me to doubt myself. To question why I would dare to think what I do. But I don’t. I’m confident in what I believe. I’ve pandered to you for years. I know what you are and what you’re like.”
“You don’t, though.”
“I do.”
My head shakes, and I yank on her skirt, jerking her to the filthy ground with me.
Cementing her body against mine with one arm, I pinch her chin with my free hand, stare deep into her eyes, then commandeer her face.
Laying my lips to her cheek, I press a kiss into her flesh until she’s fighting me with half-gargled protests and beating fists.
Pinning her motions, I whisper in her ear, “What if…”
She grips my shoulder so tight I feel her nails through the fabric of her gloves and my clothes.
“…I’m worse than anything you could ever hope to imagine?” I let my nose graze her neck. “And…what if…I love you anyway?”
Her body constricts. And she doesn’t have an answer.