2. Chapter 2 #2
I don’t say any of that. I can’t. I’ve never said it out loud, not once in ten years, and I’m not going to start with a man who is just as dangerous as my father. And who has every intention of using me for whatever his game is.
“I don’t help him with anything,” I say instead. My voice is steady. I’m proud of that. “Don’t act like women in our world have much more choice than to do what our fathers tell us to do.”
Tate studies me. I can feel him trying to take me apart, trying to see what I’m hiding. I’ve been looked at by powerful men my entire adult life. I know how to handle him.
But this is different. When other men look at me, they see what they want to see—a pretty face with a body to use. They don’t look deeper because they don’t care what’s underneath.
Tate Sinclair looks at me like he’s already figured out half my secrets and is just waiting for me to confirm them.
And the fucked up part? Part of me wants to let him.
No. Absolutely not. I need to get control of this situation before I do something stupid.
I take a slow sip of the whiskey, letting him watch the way my throat moves when I swallow. Then I set the glass down and walk toward him, letting my hips sway just enough to be obvious. I stop when I’m standing between his spread knees.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for me. But I see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers grip the whiskey glass a little harder. He’s not as unaffected as he wants me to think, and that gives me something to work with.
“Maybe we can talk about something else,” I say. I pitch my voice lower. Softer. “I saw the way you looked at me at the club. I know you want me, sexy.”
I reach for the hem of my dress, sliding it up my thighs inch by inch. His eyes drop to watch, and I see his cock twitch against his jeans. He’s hard, and that means I have leverage. Men are easy when they’re hard.
Except my hands are trembling, and it’s not just from fear. It’s from the way he’s looking at me—like he sees right through the performance to something real underneath. Something I don’t want him to see.
“I could make you feel good,” I continue, pulling the fabric higher. My voice comes out breathier than I intended. “And then maybe you won’t care so much about my father’s boring business dealings.”
I start to sink to my knees, and I will do what I’ve done countless times. I will tell myself it has nothing to do with the way my body is responding to him, the way I actually want to know what he tastes like, the way I—
“Are you done?”
The words stop me cold. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it.
“Excuse me?”
“Stand up.” His voice is harder now, but I don’t move. “I said stand up, Reese.”
I straighten slowly, my dress falling back into place. My face is burning. Men don’t tell me to stop. Men don’t ever tell me no.
“You aren’t the first woman to try that approach to avoid the inevitable.” He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, watching me over the rim. “You’re better at it than most, I’ll give you that. But that shit’s not going to work on me.”
“You don’t want me?” I hate how small my voice sounds. I motion to his crotch. “Your dick says otherwise.”
“I never said I didn’t.” He sets his glass down and leans forward, elbows on his knees.
The position puts his face level with my stomach, and he looks up at me with eyes that make me forget how to fucking think.
“I watched you suck a man’s cock in a hallway tonight, and I wanted to rip his throat out for being the one in your mouth.
So don’t ask me if I want you. We both know the fucking answer. ”
My thighs clench together. I can’t help it.
“But I don’t fuck women who are trying to manipulate me,” he continues. “That performance you just did? The voice, the walk, the way you were about to drop to your knees like a good little girl? I’ve seen it before. I know what it looks like when a woman is using her pussy as a weapon.”
He stands up, and suddenly I’m reminded of just how fucking tall he is. He towers over me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. The tattoo on his neck is visible now, black ink that disappears under his collar, and I want to trace it with my tongue.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I’ll fuck you when you actually want it,” he says, his voice dropping low enough to make heat spread between my legs.
“When that pussy is wet because the need is so great the only thing that will ease the ache is to be fucked by me, not because you think it’ll get you out of answering my questions.
” He reaches out and traces one finger along my jaw.
Those green eyes stay locked on mine, and I can’t look away.
“And when you get to that point—and you will—you’re going to beg me for it, baby girl. Do you understand?”
I can’t speak. I can’t fucking breathe.
He drops his hand and steps back. “Until then, sit down. We’re not done talking.”
I stand there for a long moment, frozen in place. My face is hot. My whole body is hot. I’m embarrassed from the sting of the rejection, but so turned on I can feel how wet my panties are.
He told me no. He told me I was going to beg. And instead of being pissed off—instead of wanting to slap that smug look off his face—my body is responding like he just offered my body everything it’s never had.
This isn’t how it works. I’m the one who uses sex as a weapon. I’m the one who stays in control. That little bit of control is all I have to balance the awful things that I have to face in the moments when I have no control over what happens to me.
But I want him. I actually fucking want him, and the odds of me begging are growing higher by the minute.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I lower myself into the chair across from him on shaky legs. I don’t trust my voice, so I pick up my whiskey and take a long drink, buying myself time to figure out what the fuck just happened.
“Better,” he says, settling back onto the couch. The bastard looks pleased with himself. “Now. Let’s talk about your father’s operation.”
I want to throw my drink in his face. I want to climb into his lap and make him take back every word he just said. I want to run out into the dark woods and take my chances with the bears.
Instead, I take another sip of whiskey and prepare to lie my ass off.
The next hour is going to be a chess match, and so far I’m losing.
“Who handles your father’s logistics?” he asks.
“I don’t know what that means.”
He doesn’t believe me, but he explains anyway. And I don’t require a fucking explanation.
“It means who moves the product. Who arranges transport. Who makes sure the girls get from point A to point B without anyone noticing.”
I feel sick at how casually he says it. The girls. Like they’re inventory. Like they’re not people.
Like I’m not one of them.
“I told you that I don’t know anything about his business.” My hand twitches toward my mouth. I redirect, reaching for my whiskey instead.
“You’re lying.” He says it like he’s commenting on the weather. “You flinch every time I mention the girls. Your pupils dilate. Your breathing changes. You know exactly what happens to them.”
Fuck. He’s reading me like a book.
“Maybe I’ve heard rumors,” I admit, giving him a crumb. “Everyone in our world has heard rumors about what some of the Council members do. Even your family.” I throw that back at him. It’s not like his family is a pillar of what is good and just. “That doesn’t mean I have specifics.”
“What was the deal with the car back at Velum?”
I go still before I can stop myself, and I know—I fucking know—he saw it.
“It was nothing.”
“Liar.” He says it almost gently, like he’s correcting a child. “You saw it and you panicked. Then you chose to leave with me instead of getting in that car.” He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “Who was in the car?”
My hand moves toward my face. I catch it halfway and grip the arm of the chair instead, knuckles white. My whole body wants to curl in on itself, to make itself small, to disappear.
“No one.”
“Try again.”
“The driver for some friend of my father’s.” The lie scrapes my throat raw. “I didn’t feel like going to their event tonight. That’s all.”
“A friend of your father’s.” Tate repeats it slowly, tasting each word. “And does this man have a name?”
Even thinking his name makes my entire body tremble. I can’t stand the thought of Michael’s hands on me again, his breath in my ear, telling me how I need to punished while he—
I shove the thought away so hard my vision blurs.
“Please. I don’t know anything.”
Tate watches me for a long moment. I can see him filing it away, adding it to whatever profile he’s building of me in his head. He knows I’m lying. He knows there’s something I’m not telling him. And he’s patient enough to wait until I break.
“We’ll come back to that tomorrow,” he says finally, and the promise in his voice makes my skin crawl.
He downs the rest of his glass and rises from his seat. I realize how exhausted I am. The adrenaline from the club has long since crashed, and I’m running on fumes and whiskey.
“You can sleep in the guest room,” he says. “Down the hall, second door on the left. There’s a bathroom attached. There’s some spare clothes in the closet if you want to change.”
“Clothes?”
How much planning has he put into this?
“This place is stocked for guests.”
“Am I a guest?” I ask. “Or a prisoner?”
He considers the question. “Somewhere in between.”
“That’s not an answer.”