But the other stuff. Have I really been—unintentionally—chipping away at Tate’s self-control?
“Jasper never let him keep the things he obsessed over. He entertained them for a while, because he liked how dangerous they made him, but Jasper claimed there was a threshold. He would’ve made Tate put a bullet in your head by now.”
“Is that what you’re going to do? Put a bullet in my head?”
He huffs, taking a step back, shoes scuffing across the rubber floor. “No. I’m not Jasper and thank fuck for that. Like an idiot, I’m rooting for you to be the one he actually cares about. You have the power to drive him off a cliff, but you also have the power to pacify him.”
“I donotcontrol Tate if that’s what you’re saying.”
“No. Definitely not. Even Jasper couldn’t, not entirely. The best he could do was leash him until that leash snapped, find a stronger leash, use that one till it snapped, repeat. But you influence his tidal wave. He’s the storm, you’re the wind.”
I grab a towel, but don’t leave for the showers yet. “So what does Tate going off that cliff look like? Are we talking murder spree?”
“I don’t know for sure. Jasper never let it get too far, but from what I’ve seen, it’s him getting increasingly possessive of you, doing more and more to protect you from what he perceives as harm. Murder isn’t off the table.”
Tate’s doll comes to mind. The one his uncle made him burn.
“Anyway, you’re screwed now, so find a way to make this work.” He stands, straightening his jacket, running a hand through his sweaty hair, nose turned down, still totally disgusted with me.
What the fuck do I do? It sounds like Tate and I are already bound together for better or for worse, and we aren’t even married yet. If I even tried to leave him, that would destroy him. If Ethan’s interpretations are correct, he’d become a mindless Ryan-seeking puppet, and Tate gets what he wants.
But what does any of that matter when I’d never leave him anyway?
Even if he goes crazy.
Even if there was no deal, I’m locked in because … because fuck.
Fuck my fucking life.
I fell for him. For no good reason either. Because I’m as fucked up as he is, and what he is ensnared my heart.
Broken meets broken.
I’d rather go on living as his possession than live without him.
“I’m going to shower,” I say. “Oh, and by the way, you’re marrying us tonight.”
“Joy,” he says. Yeah, I’m sure he’s real excited about that. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. What’s a Gen-Z taco?”
17
TATE
Another little idiot tries to approach me. I reach for the ax.
“Whoa, okay, sir,” Tyler says, stepping in to shield the innocent medic from my ire. “But your … Ryan said to get the glass out of your hands.”
Do I love razor-fine fragments of glass irritating the sensitive underside of my skin even more than my mood? No. But if someonetouchesme in the state I’m in, they’re going through the window whether or not I want them to. And I’m not about to explain why I can’t be touched. To date, Ryan’s the only one who knows anything about that. I’ve never even told Luke, and if I have it my way, Luke will never know. Usually, I can muster up the tolerance to have a medical professional work on me if needed, but not tonight.
The whole thing has turned into some kind of defense mechanism. When I feel threatened, which I very much fucking do right now, being touched will trigger any number of ballistic reactions. I won’t be held responsible, so they need to get the fuck out.
“Leave the equipment there. I’ll do it myself.”
The medic opens and closes her mouth, probably wanting to tell me what a stupid idea that is, but I see the moment shedecides I should be left to my own foolishness. They finally leave me be, but instead of getting to work, I stare at the bottle of antiseptic and tweezers, ruminating.
What happened?
