Chapter Eight. Asad #3
She releases a shuddering puff of air, and it teases me.
I slick my tongue over my lips, catching that whiskey-and-sex taste.
Her eyes flare wide, her pupils dilating.
I stiffen, for a moment, believing she’s going to force-feed me that sweet smoke and fruit air.
Do it, li’l baby. Give it to me. The rough growl in my head reeks of desperation and demand. Hunger and hope.
And when she withdraws from me, backpedaling until she reaches the desk, rage and revulsion screwing up her face, that growl transforms into a howl that holds nothing but anger and frustration.
And loss.
“I don’t really care,” Ember lies. The room stinks with that lie. I saw her face in that hallway. It’s branded on my brain. “All of it—your bitch, the wives at dinner, and some of the conversation—drove home the hell that awaits me, and you can threaten me and my people, but it’s a no for me.”
Everything inside me stills, goes dangerously quiet.
“What’s a ‘no’ for you?” I murmur, warning her with my carefully even tone that she better tread real fucking lightly.
“Tonight, I had a preview of what my life would be like chained to you. Having a courtside seat to Marcus and Michelle’s happy union all these years clued me in, but I never saw the side chick up close.
At least as far as I saw, Marcus kept the hoes away from his wife.
But no, I had to sit at a table with yours.
” She shakes her head, those beautiful, thick curls brushing her cheeks and shoulders.
A sneer rides her mouth, and she lifts her hand, palm out.
“That’s what I mean by ‘no.’ Marcus shackled me to this life with guilt, duty, and the foolishly stubborn bits and pieces of love.
And you want to do the same thing—chain me to a family, an organization that bears my name but has never bore no love for me.
I almost left after leaving that dining room.
” She waves a hand toward the library door and the rooms beyond it.
“But then I decided to stay so I could tell you that you’re no better than Marcus, but this time, I’m not handing over my life, my future, my fucking everything to you. ”
I’ve never experienced panic before.
Not when Michelle sat me and Kareem down and informed us that Dad was in the hospital and it didn’t look good.
Not when she beat Ember so badly that she couldn’t move for a week.
Not when the security at Marcus’s ho pad called and said they’d called several times and couldn’t reach him.
So no, panic isn’t an emotion I’m familiar with, which may explain why I don’t immediately recognize it. But I’m fast becoming intimate with that burning, pressurized tightening of my chest, relieved only by the sensation of razor-sharp claws sinking into my skin.
Only years of battle-won self-control keep me from revealing the chaos roiling inside my body, my head.
But that same control smothers the panic—no, not smothers. It morphs it into something cold, hard like steel. A sword to cut whatever bullshit argument she’s about to give me into so many pieces, she won’t be able to reassemble them.
She doesn’t have to hand a fucking thing over to me.
I’m taking it. Stealing it by any means necessary. Just like I did her inheritance. Don’t shit about me say I play fucking fair. Not when it comes to her.
She should really start paying attention.
“You’re right.” I cross my arms and lean a shoulder against the bookshelf behind me. “I’m not better than Marcus. I’m worse. He gave you some concessions because you were his daughter. I don’t possess even an iota of those sentimentalities.”
She snorts. “What house did you live in? He didn’t give me shit.”
“He didn’t kill you. I don’t have those constrictions.”
“Marcus had the paternal instinct of a quokka,” she says, rounding the desk, and despite the lingering dregs of anger and disquiet at her threat, I almost laugh.
She ain’t lying. That muthafucka would launch his own flesh and blood in the path of a gotdamn herd of roaming hyenas if it meant him getting away without a scratch.
“I’ve had time to think about our”—she scoffs—“negotiation yesterday. Tonight only solidified my decisions. You bullied me when I was a girl, but you won’t be doing that to the grown woman.
” She opens and closes several of the drawers until she finds a sheet of paper and a pen and slaps both on top of the desktop.
“I would get Sam here to be my legal advisor, but since you know very well he’d kill your ass if he had any clue what you’re up to, I’ll be my own counsel. ”
I arch an eyebrow, thoroughly amused. “You think I’m scared of Sam?”
“You should be. It’d be a mistake to underestimate him.”
“I don’t underestimate him or anyone; only fools are arrogant enough to do that. But, ma, Sam don’t put no fear in me. No one does.” I dip my chin toward the paper and the pen in her hand. “And I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
She sinks into the leather chair, and unbidden, the impression of a beautiful Black queen sitting on her throne invades my mind. Regal. Indomitable. Powerful. And that’s how she stares at me with that almost haughty expression and tilted chin—like I’m a peasant beneath her feet.
“You need me more than I need you. House of Cross needs me. Fact. And there’s no getting around it,” she states. I don’t argue with her because we both know it’s the truth. “I’m not staying with you.”
I tilt my head, maintaining my composure, but in reality, I’m seconds away from jumping over that desk. “The fuck you’re not.”
“Go ahead, Asad. Go ahead and threaten Perla, Gus, and Jaq. That’s not going to work this time.”
“No?” I push off the bookshelf and stalk across the room until I reach the desk, flatten my palms on the top, and lean forward. “Since when you know me to bullshit, Ember?”
“Never. I have zero doubts that you would blow away the closest things I can call family right in front of me. But that’s not enough to make me indenture myself to you and this fucking organization for the rest of my life just to be used up and eventually discarded.
No, been there, done that. Have the dead mother and impulse control disorder to show for it. ”
She removes the cap from the pen and starts writing.
“Here’s what I’m proposing—No marriage. We’ll remain engaged for a year.
At the end of that time, I’m free to leave House of Cross with my mother’s trust and my share of the inheritance my father left me in his will—you keep my voting shares and all stocks in HoC.
I want nothing to do with the fashion house or the organization.
You can also keep the formula to Glass Slipper, but I continue to receive a thirty percent share of all profit from it.
I will retain the formula to HEA for a year after I leave.
If, once that period concludes, you honor your end of the contract, I will release the HEA formula to you, with me receiving the same percentage of profit as Glass Slipper. Do you accept these terms?”
“Fuck no.” Straightening, I hold my hand out for the pen, which she hands over, mugging me.
I cross a line through the first condition.
“No to the yearlong engagement and no marriage. We’re marrying, and there’s no negotiating on that.
Your father made it clear that the head of Cross had to marry, and he had the heads of our allies there to sign a document attesting to his wishes. ”
“Yes, the document you failed to mention yesterday when I asked you why there had to be a marriage. The document I discovered existed along with your brother tonight at the dinner table,” she sneers.
“Yeah, that one,” I say, unrepentant. If she expects remorse from me, she’s in for a long-ass wait.
If I’d told Ember about it, that would’ve been leverage.
I’m not in the business of handing my adversaries the advantage.
And make no mistake, she’s my adversary.
“And the month is also nonnegotiable. I announced that tonight and to change it now would weaken my new position with Cross allies, and I refuse to do that so early in my leadership. It’s happening, Ember. Wrap your mind around it.”
She stares at the paper several moments, then finally lifts her head, pinning me with a honeyed glare.
“Fine, but for a time limit. I’m serious about not spending my life in a loveless, hostile prison. Did the document say anything about not being able to divorce?”
I want to lie to her. It’s on the tip of my tongue to do just that—
“No.”
Relief washes over her face, and she nods. “Okay, then. We marry, but after three years, I’m able to receive a divorce, and you don’t contest it.”
Shit, I’m already contesting it. I’m already refusing to let her go, imagining locking her away, holding her hostage until she capitulates and realizes she can’t go. She doesn’t want to go.
I inhale a deep breath, then deliberately exhale, looking away from her. Only when the dull roar and thoughts of marital kidnapping swirling in my head are under control do I return my attention to her.
“Yeah, I agree.” I focus on the next item on her list. “I already offered you the trust and the portion of the estate Marcus left to you. The thirty-four percent is also yo—”
She shakes her head so hard, her curls whip around her face. “No, I said what I said. I don’t want any parts of HoC. They’re yours. Hell, they weren’t really mine anyway since Marcus made sure I didn’t have voting control,” she says, bitterness coating her tone.
Though Marcus’s decision granted me more power, I can still admit it was a mark-ass move. Especially for a so-called father to his daughter.
“If that’s what you want, I can’t do anything but respect it. As far as Glass Slipper, fifteen percent of the profits.”
Her head jerks back, and she barks out a laugh. “The fuck? That’s all me. You lucky I’m not asking for fifty since you wouldn’t have shit to sell or have a delivery system if it weren’t for me. Thirty.”
“Twenty.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Thirty.”