Chapter 2 #3
“Her death would make news, so I’ll tell you if she passes,” I say, fighting a smile at her stunned expression. “Besides, Connor knows I won’t kill you—that’s not what this is about.” I settle back against the seat. “So no, you can’t call your mother. Or your father. Or anyone else.”
“That’s—that’s completely unreasonable!” She’s getting worked up again, two bright spots appearing on her cheeks. “I’m asking for one phone call! That’s—it’s basic human decency!”
I yawn. “And yet, the answer is still no.”
“But why?” She’s almost whining now, and there’s something endearing about it. “What possible reason could you have for—”
“Because I said so.”
That stops her cold.
She stares at me, mouth slightly open, like she can’t believe what she just heard.
Then understanding dawns, the realization that she’s not going to manipulate her way out of this and that her usual tactics won’t work.
She has absolutely no leverage.
“You can’t be serious,” she says slowly.
“Completely serious,” I drawl.
“That’s…” She struggles for words. “That’s not a reason! That’s what parents say to five-year-olds!”
“And yet, it’s still the answer you’re getting.
” I can’t help the slight smile. She’s genuinely outraged at being told no, like it’s a foreign concept.
“Let me guess—Connor gives you whatever you want. You’ve been getting your way your whole life just by asking nicely or pouting or deploying those big green eyes. ”
“I don’t pout,” she snaps.
I gesture to her face. “You’re literally pouting right now.”
“I am not—” She catches herself, realizes she is, and her expression shifts to pure fury. “You’re an asshole.”
Shrugging, I inspect my nails. “I’ve been called worse. By you, actually. About five minutes ago.”
“You’re a cock-juggling thundercunt asshole,” she clarifies.
I grin at her. “There we go. Much better.”
Emma makes a sound of frustration somewhere between a growl and a scream, and I have to bite back a laugh because she’s so genuinely furious at me for not falling for her manipulation.
Princess Emma Brennan is not used to being told no.
She’s not used to her charms failing or being in a situation where she has absolutely no control.
“I want to talk to my father,” she demands aggressively.
God, she doesn’t know when to give up. “No.”
“I want you to let me go,” she orders.
“No.”
“I want—”
“Let me save you some time,” I interrupt, leaning forward.
My fingers lace through her updo at the nap of her neck, holding her secure so she has to listen to me.
“Whatever you’re about to ask for, the answer is no.
Whatever demand you’re planning to make, I’m not going to agree to it.
Whatever manipulation tactic you’re preparing to deploy, I’ve seen it before and it won’t work.
So you can save your breath, or you can keep trying if it makes you feel better, but the outcome will be the same. ”
She stares at me with such pure, undiluted hatred that if I were a lesser person I would probably be uneasy.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses.
“Enjoying is a strong word.”
“Bullshit,” she cries. “You’re smiling! You’re literally smiling right now!”
I am, actually. Just slightly. I can’t help it—it’s entertaining as fuck watching Emma Brennan realize she can’t charm or manipulate her way out and for probably the first time—second if you include her almost marriage—in her privileged life, she’s powerless.
“I appreciate the creativity,” I tell her honestly, releasing her and leaning back. “The ‘I’m nobody’ approach was solid. The sick mother angle was a good emotional play. The aggressive demands were a nice change of pace. But none of it’s going to work, so you might as well save your energy.”
“I hate you,” she says flatly.
“That’s fair,” I concede.
“I hate you so much that if we were the last two people on Earth, I would rather die alone than speak to you.”
“Noted.”
“I hope you—” She pauses, searching for something terrible enough. “I hope you get constipated for a month and when you finally shit it feels like giving birth to a cactus.”
Despite myself, I laugh. It’s a real laugh that surprises both of us.
Emma looks even more outraged. “Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at the cactus thing. That’s—” I shake my head, still grinning. “That’s really funny. I’ll have to remember that.”
Emma slams her hands into the seat. “Stop finding me entertaining!”
“No.”
That single word—the same one I’ve been using to deny every request—seems to break something in her.
Her shoulders slump and she falls back against the seat, breathing hard, mascara running down her face.
The fight has drained out of her again, and she looks defeated.
Even looking disheveled and furious and probably plotting my death, she’s still beautiful.
I can’t think like that.
This is about Connor Brennan feeling a fraction of the pain I’ve carried for five years.
This is about revenge.
Nothing more.
Even if Emma Brennan’s sea-glass eyes and creative cursing and complete inability to handle being told no are making that a lot more complicated than I planned.