Chapter Thirteen
Asher
By the time the limo rolls up to the executive terminal at Teterboro, it's nearly eight.
My jet is idling on the runway, with the steps already rolled out.
The ground crew scrambles, trying to ensure we're prepped for takeoff as soon as the door closes behind us. They know I hate to be kept waiting.
Brielle is silent the entire drive, but the second we park, she whirls on me. "I thought we were going to a work event," she says, her voice all rage and venom. "Why are we at the airport?"
I lean back, enjoying her fury the way some men enjoy a single malt. "It is a work event," I say. "Just not in New York."
She glares at me, her green eyes radioactive. "You're taking me out of state? I don't have anything I need, Asher. I thought you wanted me to pack a bag to stay at your place, not to fly to wherever the fuck you're trying to take me! This is—"
I cut her off with a look. "We can get you whatever you need."
She snorts, yanking her purse tighter against her chest. "I'm not getting on that plane."
"Suit yourself," I say with a shrug. "But I'll just throw you over my shoulder and drag you up the steps. If you scream, I'll gag you again. Maybe I'll leave it in for the whole flight."
She opens her mouth, probably to tell me to fuck off, but then she sees my face and realizes I'm not bluffing. Her lips flatten into a furious line. "This is kidnapping," she mutters, stomping out of the car and slamming the door so hard the windows shudder.
I let her stomp ahead, watching the sway of her wide hips and the defiant set of her chin. Every step is an invitation to war.
Fuck. I've never wanted her more.
The crew bows and scrapes as we approach. The stewardess greets us at the door with a smile.
"Good evening, Mr. Blackstock. Ms. Dabry."
Brielle ignores her, blowing past to the cabin and throwing herself into a window seat. I nod at the crew and follow behind her.
I slide into the seat across from her, stretching my legs out so they almost touch hers. She pulls her feet up, curling into herself like a hedgehog. Cute, but I know better than to try petting her right now.
She isn't really pissed about the trip. She's still pissed about today. I don't blame her for it. I know I was a fucking asshole.
I also know I don't regret it. No one else gets to look at her like I do. No one.
I watch the way she stares out the window, refusing to look at me even when the flight attendants begin their safety routine. She'd rather pretend I don't exist, but her leg is shaking, and every so often she glances at her phone like she's waiting for rescue.
There's a sick comfort in knowing she won't speak unless I force her to. I could give her space. I could wait her out or tackle the subject myself. But then I'd have to admit that today nearly killed me.
I remember the look on her face this morning when Andrews strutted into my office, full of fucking charm and swagger. I remember how she blushed when he complimented her. I saw the way her mouth twisted into a real, unguarded smile. It was the kind of smile she rarely gives me, not without a fight.
I wanted to fucking kill him for it.
I know she was just playing her part. I know, logically, that I'm the only one she lets ruin her, the only one she wants to ruin her. But something primal gnawed at me anyway, searing through every rational thought just like always where she's concerned.
I want to own her so completely that there's no air left in her lungs for anyone but me. So she never even thinks about giving herself to anyone else.
Instead, I have this: two more weeks, tops. And then she's free. She could fuck every movie star in the country, or marry some trust fund asshole, and there's nothing I could do about it except die a little more every time I picture her with someone else.
I swore I'd let her go after thirty days. It's the best thing for her, and I know this. But how am I supposed to watch her love someone who isn't me?
The thought makes my vision go red for a split second.
I crush it down, but it's always there, festering and taunting me, reminding me that I'll never deserve her.
I can fuck my way into her soul. I can ruin her for any other man.
I can destroy anyone who tries to touch her.
But none of that will ever change reality.
In two weeks, she won't be mine anymore.
What the fuck am I supposed to do then?
My hands curl into fists on my thighs, the question pinging around my head like there's some answer that'll satisfy me.
I glance at her, daring her to ask what my problem is. Of course she doesn't. She's locked away in her own head, pretending she isn't watching my reflection in the window.
We taxi and take off in silence. She doesn't look at me once, not even when the city falls away, leaving nothing but darkness below. I watch her profile, the way she chews the inside of her cheek, the way her fingers drum an angry rhythm against the armrest.
The stewardess brings the dinner I ordered in advance—two rare steaks with a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
"Don't interrupt us until we're landing," I instruct the stewardess before she can walk away.
"Yes, sir."
Brielle doesn't touch the steak. She pokes at her vegetables with her fork, stabbing at them like she wishes they were my face.
I pour her a glass of wine and slide it across the table between us. "You need to eat," I say. "I don't want you passing out mid-flight."
She slams the fork down, the tines nearly bending. "Where are you taking me?"
"Los Angeles," I say. "We're holding a talent showcase. If you're going to be in this business, you need to see how they work, so you know when to jump on talent and when to walk."
"Bullshit," she snorts. "You probably haven't recruited talent yourself in years. We're only going because you want to control every second of my life."
I smile, amused at how well she knows me. "I don't need to control every second, princess. Just the ones that matter."
She lifts the glass, her eyes never leaving mine, and drinks. She doesn't sip. She chugs, like she wants to drown herself in the wine.
"Why do you hate me so much?" I ask, genuinely curious about which of my sins finally pushed her over the edge.
It should have been the car accident, but even after she woke up in the hospital, she still looked at me like I was the only thing she wanted.
And I was more convinced than ever that I was the last thing she needed.
She glares at me like she thinks I should already know the answer. "Because you won't let me go."
I laugh. It's not funny, not really, but out of everything I've done to make her hate me—all the fucked-up things I did to earn her hate—the thing that pushed her to the brink was my own inability to let her go. It's so fucking ironic, I have to laugh.
"It's not that funny," she sniffs.
"It is. We both know you don't want to go, Brielle."
"Keep on believing that then," she says, but there's no conviction in it. Just exhaustion and something dangerously close to affection.
"You're beautiful when you're angry." It's the kind of line I'd mock anyone else for using, but I mean it. She is so goddamn beautiful when she's angry.
She grabs the fork again, twirling it in her fingers, then points it at my chest. "If you keep talking, I'll stab you. Don't think I won't."
I lean forward, folding my hands on the table. "Go ahead. But if you do, make sure you hit my heart, princess. If you don't, you'll pay for it until you can't fucking walk."
She doesn't blink. "You're insane."
"Probably."
She sighs, like she's trying to decide whether she wants to kiss me or kill me. "What do you want, Asher?"
Everything, I think, but I don't say it.
"I want you to eat your steak," I say instead.
She scowls, shoves a piece in her mouth, and then chews with deliberate malice. I watch her tongue work, her lips parting just slightly as she swallows. Every little thing she does is erotic, even when it's meant to be hostile.
When she finishes half the steak, she tosses the fork onto her plate and leans back, eyes half-lidded from the wine.
"Happy?" she asks.
"Ecstatic."
She rolls her eyes. "You're so full of shit."
"Maybe, but I'm still happy."
She shifts in her seat, uncrosses her legs, and lets the hem of her dress ride up a few inches. She's not wearing panties. I know, because I took them before we left her apartment.
She was mad as hell about it.
I reach across the aisle and slide my hand up her thigh.
She slaps my wrist. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because," she says, her voice suddenly small. "Because I want to be mad at you for being a fucking psycho today, and you're making it impossible."
My heart does something I don't recognize. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe it's hope. I don't know, so I ignore it.
I rest my palm on her knee, not moving higher. "You don't have to forgive me, Brielle. You just have to let me have you."
She's silent for a beat, then another. "I never had a chance, did I?"
"No," I say, rising to slide into the seat next to hers. "You never did."
She eyes me warily. "What are you doing?"
I lean in, close enough that I can smell her. She covered the marks I left on her with makeup, hiding them. But she can't hide the way I smell on her skin. My scent is all over her. "Just making sure you're real."
She shakes her head. "Has a hallucination ever wanted to stab you before, Asher?"
"No," I say, brushing her hair behind her ear. "But sometimes, you look too good to be true. I have to touch you, just to remind myself that you're here with me."
She shivers, her expression softening slightly, and lets my fingers drift down her neck to her collarbone.
"Why me?" she asks, barely more than a whisper, but I can tell that she really wants to know.