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I look in her cold, dark eyes and spout, “I fucking hate you.”
She smiles. “Likewise,” she taunts, which makes the rage build inside. “The Cobra, so deadly. Watch his strike . . . more like, watch his strikeout against Caldwell.”
I wrench her arms behind her back, holding both her wrists in one hand. She drops my razor as I step into her space.
Inches away from her face, I inhale, smelling her soap and arousal. “You shouldn’t play games with someone who has as much venom inside as me,” I warn.
She laughs in my face. “What are you gonna do, hit me? We’ve done that dance before, Jason.” She meets my stare. “More than once.”
Shame washes over me. I said I wouldn’t put a woman through what my mother and I endured.
Releasing her, I shove away and move to stand in front of the sink. I pick up my dropped razor, ignoring her, as I do a quick finish of my shave. I fight the fury inside me that wants nothing more than to break her.
Like she’s broken me.
I won’t do it.
Growling, I continue about my morning as she sits on our countertop, watching me.
“Legacy. Oh, the Caldwell legacy,” she whispers, removing her top. “The way he handled me.” She cups her breasts and tweaks her nipples. I watch from the corner of my eye as I try to clean up the cut on my jaw. “Your little mouse, Jagger Caldwell’s little one, can’t handle a man like that. It’s only a matter of time before I can have another hit of the Hitmaker. He’s a drug all his own.” She slides her hand down her panties.
Ready to blow my top that Jagger Caldwell can turn her on with me standing right here, I move away from her and drop my boxers. I step into the shower as she moans out his name.
Where did the love go?
Once upon a time, I couldn’t get enough of her. Now, I swear she lives to see just how deeply she can cut me.
The water beats down on my body as my muscles flex instinctively. Jagger fucking Caldwell, the man who came from nothing to be a legacy of everything I ever wanted to be and won’t ever be.
I punch the subway tiles of my shower. My knuckles split, but I keep hitting. I won’t touch her again.
Little mouse, Tatiana Rand, now Caldwell, was raised by a monster much like mine. The night I took away all her fears, I promised myself this would be a turning point for her and for me. I would only use the fights and the gym for my aggression.
The night I gave Tatiana’s father everything he had coming to him and more, I told myself that was it. If Jagger Caldwell could be his mother’s legacy of good in a world full of bad, then I could find a way, no matter how much Missy provoked me, not to put my hands on her.
It has become a sick and twisted game between us, one I’m not proud of. I have to learn control. Underneath it all, we are two people who once had an undeniable love and passion between us. I need to remember what started it all before I lose it all. I need us to go back to the place before it all got shot to hell.
Hit after hit, I pound away, knowing this is going to cost a mint to repair. When I have exhausted myself and my mind can’t think beyond the burn in my knuckles, I stop. The soap is fire to my open skin as I wash up. However, the physical pain is a welcome reprieve from the pain clawing inside of me.
After losing my fight with the unmoving wall of my shower, I get out and towel off, wiping the blood from my knuckles. I look at the soft, white towel now stained with my blood.
How many times have these towels been marred with the damages of Missy and me fighting? How many times has her blood been mixed with mine?
I can’t even count anymore. Somehow, what was never supposed to happen, something that was never supposed to occur . . . I promised Missy I would never lose it no matter what she did. I would not overpower her. Yet, time and time again, she pushes, and I fall weak to my anger.
This ends now. No more push and pull, no more anger and love all entangled in a mix of bad magic.
Brushing my teeth, I listen for noises in the apartment. When I hear nothing, I make my way to our bedroom and get dressed for the day. As I knot my necktie, I step out into the living room to find Missy crying on the couch.
I look at the mess of a woman on our sofa. I look at what we’ve done to each other, what I’ve done to her. I can’t help but blame myself, I’m the man. The once vibrant, smiling, confident seductress has been reduced to a puddle of tears and anger.
