Chapter Nine #3
He doesn't say anything, just kisses the top of my head and lathers his hands with shampoo, massaging it into my scalp. The gesture is so gentle, so out of character, that I almost cry. Instead, I swallow it back and let him tip my head back under the water, rinsing me clean.
Afterwards, he runs a bar of soap down my body, paying special attention to the bruises he left, the fingermarks around my throat, the bite on my shoulder. When he reaches between my legs, I jerk away, but he holds me in place, careful but absolute.
"Don't," I say, but it's only half-hearted, and he knows it.
"I hurt you?" he asks, and I hear real concern in his voice.
I want to slap him. I want to pull him closer. I can't do either.
"You always hurt me," I say.
He crooks a finger beneath my chin, turning my face up to his.
"You're the only thing I want to hurt, and the one thing I never want to hurt," he says. Before I can ever process what that's supposed to mean, he kisses me like he intends to take his time memorizing my taste.
He doesn't fuck me again. He just stands behind me, his arms around my body, holding me against his chest until the hot water runs cold.
And yet again, I find myself wanting to believe this could be real. It's a dangerous thought, one destined to break me in ways his hands never will. And yet…the longer our agreement goes on, the more often I find myself thinking it.
I make my first friend at work on Tuesday afternoon, after Asher sends me on a mad dash through the office to find some file I think he made up just to torture me. I wouldn't put it past him. Torture is his style.
Mina is a junior agent, working five floors below Asher's office. I nearly collide with her coming out of the elevator.
"Shit. I'm sorry," I mutter, immediately stooping to help scoop up the paperwork scattered all over the tile.
"It's all good," she says with a soft laugh. "I'm used to being run over around here."
I pause, glancing up at her. Almost instantly, I get what she means. She's maybe five-two, with pink cheeks and frizzy hair. She doesn't look like she belongs. Hell, she doesn't even particularly look like she wants to be here.
"You're the new girl, right?" she asks, smiling at me.
Unlike when everyone else does it, there's no edge to it, like she's hunting for gossip to spread.
Everyone else avoids me like they're afraid I'm some spy for Asher, sent to catch them doing something they shouldn't be doing so he can have them tossed out onto the street.
I pretend I don't see it and that everything is normal.
Part of me is pretty sure they all know that he's fucking me over his desk at every available opportunity.
Makeup only does so much to hide the marks and bruises, especially with him adding new ones damn near daily.
Especially when he doesn't even try to cover those I leave all over him.
But hell will freeze over before I admit that we're fucking, though.
I may be his plaything, but I refuse to be someone they pity.
And maybe I refuse to let them view him as just some asshole in a suit with enough money to buy a woman's obedience and bury her sense of self.
He's a lot of things—most of them fucked up and borderline evil—but he isn't that.
What's between us is our business. They'd never understand. I don't think anyone would.
"I'm the temporary girl," I mutter, holding out a stack of paperwork for her. "I won't be here long."
"He's already running you off, huh?" She grimaces, pushing her glasses up her nose. "He has that habit."
I snort, not really surprised. Frankly, I'd be more surprised if people actually enjoyed working for Asher.
He's an asshole who expects perfection and isn't above humiliating someone to get it.
"He wishes he could run me off," I mutter.
"I'm only interning long enough to make his life hell, and then I'm out. "
She laughs in response, thrusting out her hand. "I'm Mina Banks."
"Brielle Dabry."
She blinks at me. "You're…"
"Yes," I groan, rolling my eyes, instantly on edge. "Nathan and Estelle Dabry were my parents. Liam Dabry is my brother. No, I'm not following in their footsteps."
"Yeah," she says weakly. "That's what I was going to say."
I get the impression that's definitely not what she was going to say, which leaves me wondering what she did intend to say. But she doesn't give me a chance to ask before she pastes a bright smile on her face.
"Your brother is a legend around here."
I blink at her. "My brother? Why?"
Something about my tone cracks her up. She laughs freely, which is a nice change from everyone else in this office. They act like they're afraid to be real, as if Asher might catch them being human and have them executed for it. I like Mina instantly.
"Your brother fires us at least twice a year," Mina says. "It never sticks, but he's very dramatic about it."
Why doesn't that surprise me? Liam loves to call me dramatic, but he's always the one to cause a scene.
I narrow my eyes, curious as hell. "Why does he fire you guys?"
Mina shrugs one shoulder. "I guess he and Mr. … uh, Asher … butt heads a lot. Their arguments are brutal. But I'm sure you're probably used to that."
"Yeah," I mutter, slapping a bright smile on my face so she can't tell that I'm lying through my teeth. "Of course."
"I should let you get back to work before he comes looking for you," she says, darting a look over my shoulder like she's afraid Asher is already on his way. "He hates to be kept waiting."
"Tell me about it," I snort, and then frown. "He's going to give me hell when I get back up there without this damn script."
"What script are you looking for?"
"One that Panorama Pictures allegedly sent over for Jayson Jax. No one has seen it."
"Oh. Check with Lilith on the fourth floor," Mina says. "She's his agent, so she usually reads through his scripts."
I stare at her for a full five count. "Are you serious?"
"Asher didn't tell you?" She grimaces. "He probably just forgot."
"Oh, I'm sure he did," I mutter, ready to murder him slowly, so I can enjoy his suffering before he finally succumbs to his injuries.
Why is he such an asshole?
I don't get the chance to ask him. By the time I make it back to his office with the script in hand, he's on a conference call.
I drop the script on his desk, being as loud as possible.
He just flicks a glance at me, a question in his gaze.
I briefly consider cursing him out, regardless of who is on the other end of that line, but there's something in his eyes—some hint of softness—that stops me.
Why is it so hard for me to hate him?
The asshole doesn't even have the decency to be a consistent monster. And worse—worse—he keeps shoving these little cracks of realness through my armor. It's making me crazy.
I stomp back to my desk, throw myself into the chair, and glare at my screen.
Even then, I still see the look in his eyes when I dropped the script—like he was trying to tell me something without actually saying it.
Like maybe this war between us is just a stand-in for something else, something we both refuse to name because it would mean acknowledging we're just two broken, angry people who never learned how to stop hurting the things we care about most.
He hurts me, and I try like hell to hurt him back, or to hurt him first, because we'd rather destroy ourselves than let go. That's the thing about pain that no one tells you, the insidious part they always leave out. Sometimes, it's the only way you know you're still alive.
And sometimes, it's more addictive than pleasure.