31. Cora
Cora
Brady O’Sullivan loves me.
No, Brady O’Sullivan says he loves me. It’s a power play, it has to be, but I can’t make immediate sense of it. For a moment, I’m so shocked that all I can do is stare at him.
It’s a moment too long.
When I say nothing, Brady’s face contorts into anger. He pushes himself off me and away from the bed.
“I own you,” he snarls. “I should fucking command you to say it to me.”
I feel my jaw drop. More than shock, more than anger. Horror consumes me.
I knew he was possessive and arrogant, I knew he didn’t see me as his equal, at least not yet. A delusional part of me thought we could still be partners, that I could somehow prove myself to him, even though it’s his responsibility to get his misogynist head out of his ass.
And now, to say that he owns me? How fucking dare he.
He stalks over to his closet and pulls out a set of gray sweats. He yanks them on with jerking stabs of his arms and legs, sneering at me in disgust the whole time.
My skin is cold with rage, while my insides burn. The shame in me is fury toward Brady and toward myself. This is what I get for letting myself be vulnerable with a man like him, a man I knew had no mercy.
He stalks out of the room and slams the door behind him.
I cover my mouth against a scream of fury. I’ve already shown him too much of myself. I’m not going to let him see any more of my vulnerability.