He approaches with slow steps, the kind that sends a chill down your spine and makes nerves swirl low in my gut.
“Uh-huh, I’m sure.” His lip curls. “Work. Work. Work,” his words dripping with sarcasm.
I back up until the entry table presses against my hip, its wood digging into my bone.
“You think I’m stupid?” he asks quietly, which is worse than shouting. “You think I don’t notice when my fiancé can’t wait to get away from me?”
His hand snaps out, gripping my collar, as his fingers dig into the skin just below my throat. He yanks the fabric down, exposing the faint, healing bruise he left.
A sick smile stretches across his face.
“There she is.”
Like he’s proud of the mark.
Something inside me recoils so violently that my knees lock to keep me upright.
He finally lets me go and walks away, tossing himself onto the couch as if the conversation bored him.
“Is my baby hungry?” he asks, picking up his phone. “Didn’t cook.”
Whiplash. Always. Whiplash.
My own phone buzzes in my palm. I quickly look as Brian is distracted.
Reed
Sleep well tonight, sunshine.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I squeeze my phone in my palm before quickly sliding it into my pocket.
His gaze cuts to me, a questioning look etched on his face. “Who was that?”
“No one,” I whisper.
“Layla,” he says, “don’t forget, you’re mine.”
I grip the handle of my suitcase and push myself down the hallway toward our bedroom, refusing to show fear even though my legs tremble.
Behind me, he calls out lazily. “You can run all you want, baby. You’ll always end up right back here.”
The worst part?
He used to be right.
I roll my suitcase into my bedroom and turn on the soft lamp beside the bed.
Lifting my suitcase onto my bed, I stand by, folding a shirt with more care than it deserves, hoping that if I stay quiet enough, he’ll leave me alone tonight.
The sounds from the living room fall silent, and all I hear are footsteps echoing off the wooden floors.
He crawls straight into my space, his expensive cologne burning my nostrils, as his fingers already roam my waist.
“So,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the back of my neck, “how about you show me how happy you are to see me.”
His hand moves lower, cupping my ass, squeezing, as he moans against the back of my neck, making me feel sick.
“No,” I say immediately.
