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“A-S-S-H-O-L-E.” I continue smiling, taunting him. “Do you want me to spell it for you again—”
My words cut off when he’s at my face, kneeling on the bed in front of me. His hand wraps around my throat like a shackle. He’s not squeezing, but the firm grip is enough to restrict my air supply and my thoughts.
A frightening chill forms goosebumps along my skin as I stare at his darkened, merciless eyes.
The sense of bravery I gained a few seconds ago evaporates into thin air. My shoulder blades snap together as if telling me I should be scared.
This is a scary person.
He’s fucking terrifying.
The need to run away from him hits me again, clawing under my skin and pumping in my blood.
“You seem to be taking your amnesia game way too seriously, so let me remind you of how it goes.” His thumb rubs my jaw like a lover’s caress when in fact it’s a Grim Reaper’s kiss.
It’s cold.
Everything about him is freezing.
My pulse roars in my ears like a distant thunderstorm.
He’s invading my space like a natural disaster, impossible to stop or prevent.
Still, I manage to choke words out. “You think this is a game? What type of person pretends to have lost their memories?”
“The type who doesn’t want people to know what they’ve done.”
“What I’ve done?”
“Shhh. Don’t talk.” He presses his thumb to my lips, and I can’t help the pulses taking flight under my skin. “When I speak, you listen.”
Despite the shivers of fear bursting through my system, my temper flares. Who the hell does this asshole think he is?
It takes effort, but I tell him point-blank, “You’re not my keeper, Ash.”
He pauses, and his hold loosens on my throat a little as if I’ve caught him off guard. The lapse lasts for a fraction of a second before his mask is strapped back on his face and his clutch tightens.
“It’s Asher. You don’t call me that. Ever.”
I want to taunt him, but that would be stupid with his hand around my throat this way. I’m seriously starting to think he’s a psycho, and psychos don’t think twice before suffocating their victims.
Or snapping their necks.
“Shouldn’t you be in England?” My vocal cords strain with the effort it takes to say the words. “Alex said you study at Oxford.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?” What the hell is that supposed to mean? I was only enduring his jerk ways because he’s supposed to fly to another continent.
As if reading my mind, his lips twitch in a smirk as he strokes my jaw with his lean thumb. “I can’t leave my fiancée alone, now can I?”
Screw him to the darkest pits of hell.
We both know that’s not the case. He’s only staying here to torment me and turn my life into a nightmare.
More than he already is.
“Don’t take the help’s side over mine.” All his good—or fake—mood disappears, replaced by a cold, hardened expression. “Is that understood?”
