I blink. This muthafucka just threatened me. That in itself shouldn’t be shocking. I know what Asad is—a liar, thief, psychopath, murderer. But that he’s inmyfucking house, sitting inmystudy, threatening my life tomyface? It’s the audacity for me.
“Married to you or breathing.” I wrinkle my nose, pretending to weigh the pros and cons. “I’ll take Breathing Is Overrated for two hundered, Alex. Now.” I uncurl my legs and arms and prepare to stand, ending this pointless, inane conversation. “If that’s all—”
“Ember, if you move your little ass out of that chair, I’ll tie you to that mu’fucka and make what you endured as a kid seem like recess. Try me.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but that doesn’t prevent a shiver from trampling down my spine.
I believe him.
Just the mention of what I’d suffered at his hands is enough to ossify my muscles. I remind myself every day that I’m over the abuse of my childhood, that I’m no longer a prisoner to it. But the primal part of me stills like prey catching scent of a stalking predator on the wind.
Asad Prince is my walking, living nightmare. Him and Michelle.
But while I’ve outgrown—desperately fought my way free of—my fear of Michelle, it’s not so with her son. Maybe becauseI sometimes find myself foolishly captivated by all that pretty, nut-brown skin, brutally sharp angles, beautifully dirty mouth, and startling silver eyes. Maybe because at times my pussy forgets he’s the enemy and weeps like a Kardashian after she’s been cheated on… again. This makes him far, far more dangerous than any drug, any weapon. No…
Thismakeshim the drug, the weapon.
And my guaranteed destruction.
So it’s fuck him forever.
If only my gotdamn ignorant-ass coochie would get on one accord with me.
With his quiet warning echoing in my ears, I ease back into the chair, body rigid, fingers like claws gripping the arms, pulse like rapid gunshots in my ears. Still, I force my muscles to unlock, to deliberately relax so I at least appear to not be on red alert. The worst thing one could ever do is show weakness in the face of a hunter, a predator.
Asad taught me that. In spades.
“There are several reasons you’re going to marry me,” he says as if he’s reading the details of a new distribution contract instead of dictating the terms of my immediate future. “One. Marrying me grants you access to your trust five years ahead of schedule. And as an incentive, I’ll relinquish my role as trustee—”
I snort in disgust. “And have your bitch of a mother take your place? No thanks. I can’t believe these words are actually coming out of my mouth, but I’d rather have you than Michelle. Letting that ho near anything associated with my mother…”
Fuck.I bite the inside of my cheek.Shut. Up.God knows I didn’t intend to let that much slip out. I should know better than to give Asad anything personal that he can later weaponize.
“No trustee at all, Ember. Marcus relied on your intelligence and knowledge to fund his entire operation. It makes sense you can also manage your funds without a babysitter,” he says, his full lips twisted into a sardonic half… shit, I’d saysmileon anyone else, but this is Asad.
“You’re right.” I nod. “That is an incentive. But not enough of one to sell my soul. You, Marcus, Michelle, Kareem—the whole fucking lot of you would do and probably have done anything and anybody just to acquire money and power. Hell, I don’t have to look too far behind you to see all the bodies littering the streets like piles of steaming dog shit. If I have to wait five more years to access that trust, or even never access it at all, I’m good on you. On all of you.”
If he really believed I was as smart as he claimed, then Asad had to know I’d never fully depend on Marcus, him, or anyone to take care of me. Yes, I pull a hefty salary down from HoC, but I’ve also invested in stocks, real estate, saved. I’ve known about Mom’s trust ever since I was thirteen and Sam sat me down and explained how she’d set a fund aside for me apart from the Cross fortune because she wanted me to have my own. Never wanted me to be out here fighting for financial independence because a man shackled the purse strings with tradition, misogyny, and “love.”Thatfucking four-letter word that had tripped up many a woman onto her back and out of her power. Kimberly Jacobs Cross hadn’t wanted that for me.
She should’ve wanted that for herself when she married Marcus.
I did learn the lesson she desired, just not in the manner she intended. As the creator of the drugs that funded his empire, I’ve been paid millions and, except for my home, lived a nine-to-fiver on a budget. I knew this day would arrive. Knew the time would come when I could taste the precursor to my freedom like a refreshing remise en bouche—the palate cleanser erasing the bitterness of the past before I gorged on the liberation of my future.
In other words, not Marcus, Michelle, or fucking Asad gon’ catch me slipping.
I got my own.
I don’t need his fucking money.
And though my mother’s trust rightfully belongs to me, I think she would agree with me from wherever she is saying, fuck that money and her baby daddy.
“You good on breathing?”
Said breath catches in my throat. Not out of fear—okay, I can lie to others, and do so on a regular basis, but I don’t make a habit of doing it to myself. So yes, a frisson of fear does skitter down my spine at his explicit threat. Those gray eyes don’t blink, don’t waver from mine, and he’s not shittin’ me. He will squeeze the breath from my throat, staring down at me as my soul flails, clawing and biting to hold on. Then he would drop my cooling carcass to the floor and step over it without a shred of remorse or guilt. That’s how that muthafucka’s built.
Which makes the quicksilver strand of, of… reckless excitement trembling underneath my skin, racing along the highway of my veins, an indictment. A gotdamn aberration.
And yet my pussy flutters like a fucking swooning Victorian virgin.
Shit.
