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He ignored that, likely knowing it was true.
"No riveting commentary about the poem selection tonight? Were they, perhaps, pretty?" he asked, not even trying to pretend he wasn't mocking me, throwing my own words back in my face.
"Why are you such an asshole?" I snapped, too annoyed to care about keeping the peace, not provoking my captor. "I mean, where do you get off being so nasty? Were you the one kidnapped, held against your will, and drugged? If you find me so inconvenient, you can let me go. I will even let my damn self out," I said, flicking off the blanket, and making my way toward the door.
It wasn't like I thought he would actually let me go.
I was just sick of being a good little captive while he made me miserable and confused.
My hand barely even closed around the doorknob before I heard a growling noise—so animalistic-sounding that I felt my heart leap in my chest—a second before a hand slammed into the door above my head as another hand grabbed the back of my neck, yanking me backward, forcefully turning me. His hand slid around my neck to my throat, slamming me back against the door by it.
"Don't fucking test me," he demanded, voice rougher than I'd heard it.
And his eyes.
His eyes didn't seem so blue anymore.
They seemed red.
But no.
That didn't make any sense.
People didn't get red eyes.
It was just a trick of the light.
I swallowed hard.
Because I was supposed to be terrified.
Why, then, was there something else coursing through my system? Something warm and liquid, something that made my nerve endings feel like they were humming, something that made me very much aware of an oppressive weight on my lower stomach?
"Or what?" I heard myself asking the question like I was suddenly outside my body, watching on as some weird, bold, daring version of myself decided to try to go toe-to-toe with her captor.
"You should keep your mouth shut, Josephine," he told me, my name sounding way too good rolling off of his tongue. "Or I will find some other use for it," he added.
It was a threat.
Yet my sex tightened at the sound of it.
"You said you wouldn't force me," I reminded him, head feeling a little swimmy with the pressure of his fingertips on each side of my throat.
"You think I'd need to force you?" he challenged, hand sliding to my shoulder, pushing until I started to go down on my knees.
I knew I was going to hate myself for it, but my hands rose, grabbed the front of his pants, and started drawing them down.
I had no idea, though, just how much I was going to be disgusted with myself when his hand suddenly grabbed my chin, fingers digging in.
"Told you," he said, eyes as cold as his voice.
And with that, he yanked his pants back into place, sidestepped me, and made his way out of the room, closing, and locking the door.
Leaving me there on the floor feeling pathetic and rejected.
Which was fitting, I guessed.
Because I had been pathetic.
What the hell was going on with me? Why would I want someone who had treated me like he did?
Maybe it was something primal.
There was no denying Ace was extremely alpha, dominant, the leader of this group of men and women. As such, he had all the pride and arrogance that came with that position.
And maybe some long-buried, cave woman part of me responded to that, recognized that his would be virile genes, that he would be a fierce protector.
That was why women—smart, educated, mature women—often found themselves with hot bad boy loser sorts, wasn't it?
It was chemical.
Not personal.
I could come to terms with that. I could even, now that I recognized it for what it was, avoid it in the future.
At least that was the plan.
Because the last man in the world I could ever actually want—on more than a physical level—was that grandpa-sweater-wearing, poetry reading, egotistical, asshole.
I mean the man's eyes went crazy when he was annoyed. If that wasn't a red flag, I didn't know what was.
And, sure, I clearly had a track record of liking jackasses.
But I was trying to be a better person.
Whether or not my lady business wanted to agree with me.
Desire was mind over matter, right? That was why as soon as your boyfriend became your ex, you were disgusted by the idea of them touching you again.
I just needed to remind myself to be disgusted by Ace.
It proved easier than I thought because for the next three days, I didn't see Ace.
He came in every night to read to Red, but I pretended to be asleep, and he didn't call me out again.
I mean, his voice was still like liquid sex, but when those thoughts came up, I ran the highlights of his assholeness across my mind. It helped.
