Sympathy for the Devil

Chapter One

Brielle

Ifeel him behind me long before I smell his aftershave. Asher Blackstock is like a ghost, clinging to the edges of my subconscious, haunting my mind. No matter where I go, he's always there—gorgeous, cold, cruel, and untouchable.

I think he carved out a space in my psyche long before I understood the ramifications, back when I thought he was just my brother's best friend. Back before I realized that he's more monster than man. Back before he made it his mission in life to ruin mine.

By the time I saw him for what he really is, it was already too late for me.

I've almost come to terms with the fact that he'll never let go now that he's gained a foothold on my soul. Almost.

That doesn't mean I don't intend to make him pay for it.

I absolutely do.

Which is precisely why I press myself up against the bar like some expensive call girl with my tits out and bat my lashes at the bartender in front of me.

He's cute in an all-American kind of way.

Maybe in another life, I could have dated him.

But I'll never know, because Asher won't ever allow that to happen.

He isn't a good man. He isn't even a nice one. He's both devil and jailer, someone who takes pleasure in my torment. He goes out of his way to make me miserable, just because it makes him smile. Just because he's decided it's what I deserve for causing the crash that almost ruined his life.

He doesn't want me, but no one else is allowed to have me, either.

The first time I tried to date someone, I was eighteen. It was a few months after the accident. I think I was desperate for Asher to see me as a grown-up, not a little girl. Jude Ricci was my way of making it happen.

He showed up at my door with a bouquet and a devilish smirk. Asher answered the door before I could, only to loom over Jude like some monster guarding the gates of hell. He didn't say a word, just stared.

Jude left the flowers and peeled off on his motorcycle.

The next morning, his motorcycle was dismantled in his driveway…and he never spoke to me again.

Back then, I didn't understand why Asher did it. Part of me, naively, thought he was being protective, looking out for me because my brother, Liam, asked it of him.

Ha. Asher doesn't do protective.

He wants me in a cage where he can watch me squirm.

He's only gotten worse over the years.

My freshman year at NYU, I went out with an artist from my literature class. I was tired of being alone, and I convinced myself that it'd be fine. That Asher had no say over my life anymore since I was in college.

Gregory and I made it to the restaurant. Things were going well until he went to the bathroom and never came back. I found out later that Asher paid someone two hundred bucks and a bottle of expensive scotch to threaten him.

I don't even know how he knew about the date or where to find us.

It was weeks before I saw the photo Gregory took the next morning of his Prius outside his dorm, with all four tires slashed, and a note on the windshield warning him to find someone else to fuck.

It was written in blood.

By the time I turned twenty-one, most of the men in Manhattan had learned to steer clear of me.

The ones who didn't, Asher broke. It was rarely a direct threat that they could tie back to him.

All he had to do was hint and then follow it up by destroying something they loved, and most guys ran without ever looking back.

He crushed those who didn't take the hint, making it clear to everyone that I was off limits, chained in hell beside him simply because he decided that's the way it should be.

He intends to make me pay for that accident for eternity. I'll never truly be free of him, but I fight anyway, just to piss him off.

"Hi," I purr to the bartender, forcing my lips into a bright smile. He's in his mid-twenties, with a square jaw and icy blue eyes. Cute, but not gorgeous.

I can almost hear Asher grinding his teeth from ten feet away.

The bartender, Corey, according to his name tag, flashes me a cocky grin. "What can I get for you, sweetness?"

"I don't know." I bat my lashes, pretending I'm just another vapid socialite who only speaks in flirtation.

If he knew I was only flirting to piss Asher off, I doubt his gaze would be fixed on my tits like it is right now.

"Why don't you surprise me with something sweet, and then keep me company while I drink it? "

Corey's brows fly up, his gaze still locked on my chest like he expects my tits to pop out. I lean forward just enough to tease him.

He blushes, but recovers quickly, finally lifting his gaze to my face. "You got it. I'll make sure it's as sweet as you." His voice is playful, hungry, his line about as original as a Picasso in a dollar store.

I pretend to be hooked anyway, smiling like he's the best thing since sliced bread. Guys like him are so fucking easy. They don't care that I'm forty pounds overweight. They don't actually see me, anyway. When they look at me, all they see is dollar signs or my family's name.

A hint of spice swirls around me, and Corey's grin falters. I don't even have to turn around to know what he's staring at…six-plus feet of hand-tailored Italian rage with a face so beautiful it's wasted on him.

Asher's hands land on the marble bar on either side of me with a thud. "She's allergic to alcohol," he grits out, not sparing me a glance. Not even his expensive suit hides the violence of his brawny body caging me in. "And you'd probably kill yourself after the first date anyway, so don't bother."

I'm not allergic to alcohol, but I don't bother correcting his lie. There's no point. In this city, Asher gets what Asher wants.

Corey swallows. "Uh. Sure. No alcohol." He shoots a quick, nervous glance at me before he flees.

I whirl on Asher, shoving him back a step with my hands planted against his broad chest. "What is your problem?"

He smirks, like he's thrilled to be the villain in my life yet again. I'm sure he probably is. It's the highlight of his psychotic life. "Just saving his life, princess," he drawls, his voice a deep purr. "We both know he couldn't survive you."

I laugh, loud enough to make people further down the bar turn to look. "What's wrong, Asher? Jealous? Or just pissed you don't stand a chance?"

He leans in, so close I can smell his cologne and the brandy on his breath. So close his body brushes mine. I try like hell to pretend it doesn't bother me. "What's wrong, princess? Don't like anyone hearing the truth about you?"

"I just don't like that you think you get a say about who I fuck," I snap. "Just so we're clear, you don't." I turn on my heel, hitting him with my bag in the process.

The sad truth is…I've never fucked anyone. Asher's gone out of his way to ensure no one ever gets that close. I think he wants me to die a spinster virgin. Actually, I think he'd prefer if I just died, period. Being permanently rid of me is probably his biggest wish in life.

I don't know why he bothered to save me in the first place. We both would have been better off if he'd just let me die in the street that night. Instead, he saved my life just so he could torture me.

He follows me as I stalk away from the bar. Of course, he does.

I move fast, my heels rapping an impatient staccato as I head for the private dining room. The ma?tre d' holds open the door with a flourish.

I toss my hair and sail through, refusing to check if Asher is right behind me. I already know he is. I feel the heat and fury pouring off him.

Inside, my brother is sprawled across a velvet banquette with his phone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

He grins like a pirate when he sees me, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that always makes me ache for our parents. For a moment, he's not a hotshot director I barely see anymore. He's just Liam, and I'm just his little sister. The world feels…almost normal.

Until I remember Asher standing behind me.

I launch myself into Liam's arms.

He laughs and squeezes me until my ribs creak, then presses his lips to my temple. "Hey, Brie," he murmurs. "You look feral tonight."

I smirk against his shoulder. "I missed you, too, asshole."

He laughs and ruffles my hair, which I immediately smooth back down, scowling at him. The second I pull away, Asher is there, all heat and restrained violence, crowding too damn close.

I ignore him so thoroughly that I hear his teeth grinding together again.

"Blackstock!" Liam yells over my head, thunking his glass hard enough on the table to make the ice clink. "You're late. Again."

Asher doesn't bother with an apology. The only acknowledgment he gives is a grunt so low you'd have to be listening for it. I am, unfortunately. I'm always listening.

Liam sweeps a hand toward the empty place settings. "Sit," he says. "I ordered the wine I know you like."

My brother thinks this is a normal dinner. He doesn't know how wrong he is about that.

There's nothing normal about the way his best friend stares at me like I'm prey he's trying to decide whether to kill or keep alive. And there's nothing normal about the way I grip my purse, trying to decide if I want to set it down or bash Asher over the head with it.

His lips curve into a taunting smirk, as if he knows precisely what I'm thinking. That irritates me. Actually, everything about Asher irritates me.

His stare burns as he slides into the seat across from me. I feel it on my skin, seeping into every secret place on my body…just like always.

He hasn't spoken since we stepped into the dining room, but Liam is oblivious as usual, babbling about his next project, some political thriller he's filming in the UK.

Asher isn't listening to him. He's waiting, the same way a python waits for a mouse to move a single muscle before striking.

Like usual, he's the snake…and I'm the mouse.

If I flinch, he'll know I'm nervous.

If I call him out, he wins.