11. RYAN #2
Kline’s in his office as promised, his suit jacket off, sipping on yet more scotch.
How much of that has he had? As soon as I enter, he sets his glass down, sauntering toward me like a sleazy panther.
Fun. I take a breath, hardening my stance.
Kline’s not bad looking. He’s a handsome fucker.
Dirty blond hair with that all-American swoop, solid build, and a square jaw.
He played hockey at North Point with my dad.
I fight to remain still as his arm reaches, fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear, leaving an eerie tingle in their wake. “I see some of her in you. Your mother.”
Is he on something? No one says I look like her. Everyone marvels over how much I look like my father. I wish I looked as much like our mother as Griff does.
“Look, I don’t know what Father promised you, but—”
“He said I could do what I liked. I won’t fuck you until our wedding night, I’m traditional that way, but we can do other things.”
He steps forward. I step back. “Kline.”
“Get back here.”
I glance toward the door. Bet the guards moved in front of it when I came inside. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Kline’s hand smooths its way up my arm. “I want you,” he says.
Yeah, caught that, but I don’t know if I want him. Well, I mean, I don’t want him right now, but he’s as trustworthy as Tate. Why shouldn’t I consider him?
A quick hand slides through my hair, cinching, my skin prickling in warning. This is nothing like when Tate does it.
“Look, I think we should—”
Kline yanks my neck open for him, and his lips attach to the skin, sucking.
“Okay, enough,” I say, pushing him off me. And, whoa. He doesn’t like that.
Kline shows his teeth. “You’re not as obedient as promised. Maybe I need a little more time with you, until you understand.”
“I have a boyfriend,” I blurt out.
I don’t know what I think that’s going to do, but I need a distraction from wherever the fuck he was going with that sentence. The longer I’m here, the more this house closes in on me, trying to trap me with its claws.
“You what?”
“A boyfriend. If we’re going to be together,” I say smoothly, “the least I can do is break it off with him.”
He advances on me again. “I don’t give a fuck about him. As far as I’m concerned, it’s ended now.”
His hand moves, mine moves faster, and I catch his wrist. “I do.” I shove, and he sneers, some of his neatly gelled hair falling into his eyes. I rub my neck where he was sucking me like a goddamn vacuum cleaner, wiping away his saliva.
Kline lunges, and my honed reflexes are quick, but he catches my foot with his, and I go down, landing with a thud on the carpeted floor on my ass. I crawl backward, hitting the couch. He’s on me, straddling my lap.
“You have five fucking seconds to get the fuck off me,” I warn.
“Give me one kiss, and I’ll get up.”
“No.”
He grips my throat. “I don’t have to ask. I can make you.”
What does he think this is? It’s not really asking. I glance toward the door. Would he call his guards in? Have them hold me down? Or worse. Maybe I need a little more time with you until you understand. What did he mean by that?
I don’t want to find out. My best option is negotiation. “I’ll kiss you, but then I want to go.”
“Deal,” he says, but I see it in his eyes. He wants a lot more than that.
The last thing I want to do is kiss this asshole.
I’d rather slit his fucking throat, but I tilt my head up, waiting.
He stares down at me for a few, long seconds and then descends.
His lips are all wrong. Yeah, he’s trying to be all Mr. Dominant, and I own you, but I don’t melt into him like I do with Tate.
I don’t want him at all, and it’s not just because he’s a raging dirtbag.
I can’t get his lips off me fast enough, but I let him kiss me, just barely stopping myself from retching from the taste of scotch on his tongue.
Finally, he pulls away, and he stands up. I let out a cleansing breath before hopping up quickly, refusing his hand. He rubs a thumb over the hollow of my neck where his lips assaulted me. “At least I have my mark on you.”
He what? No. No goddamn way. That enrages me. I don’t want his marks on me. Just Tate’s. “Are we done here?”
Kline nods. “Go. But, Ryan? Break up with your boyfriend. You don’t belong to him anymore.”
I don’t know if Tate’s actually my boyfriend, though I’d say it’s a given if he expects marriage anytime soon. I’d love to hear what he thinks about me not belonging to him. Without answering, I storm past the guards and into the living room, where I’ve never been so grateful to see my father.
He didn’t leave me here.
“How did it go?” he asks when we’re in the car. I’d scream at him, not something I’d ever do under any other circumstance, but he seems rattled, too.
“Kline assaulted me.”
His jaw hangs open. “How is that possible? You’re a giant hockey player.”
“Even hockey players can’t stop speeding bullets, sir.” I stare out the window as the car winds down the twisty road.
“He said he wanted alone time with you. I didn’t know he’d do that.”
I’m too furious to respond to that comment. What the fuck did he think alone time meant? “Consider me aptly chastised for telling you to fuck off. You need to call whatever this is off, sir.”
It’s his turn to stare out the window, quiet. “Nothing has been finalized, but this wasn’t just a warning, Ryan. The formal merger between the Kline and Savage families is real. You don’t need to marry him now, but I expect you to marry him by Christmas.”
“You want a way to keep me on a leash.”
“We saw what happened when you were free to make your own choices. You made the wrong ones. You’ll thank me for this someday.”
“Thank you? Why? Because I’ll have eight beautiful children, two stepchildren, and a husband who thinks I’m his whore?”
I shiver at the word whore. Tate calls me that. For some reason, it’s okay when he does. What’s the difference?
You feel safe with Tate, my brain echoes back. But why? Why? It makes no fucking sense. I’m about as safe with Tate as I am with Kline. I should get far away from both of them.