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ChapterEighteen
CHRISTIAN
I catch Mia’s arms as she reaches the top of the stairs.
“Let go,” she says, trying to shake me off.
There’s a hot fury moving through me, and her words, the meanings beneath them, are in my head. I meet her gaze, and it’s as hot and stormy as I feel. But I narrow my eyes and shake my head. “Not on your life, Mia.”
With that, I drag her with me, down the hall, past the guest quarters, and to where my rooms are.
She protests the entire way, and I ignore her as I kick open my bedroom door and pull her into my quarters with me.
Letting her go, I turn and push her against the wall, hand on either side of her head, not touching now, but holding her there anyway.
She’s breathing hard, and so am I. The air cracks and sings around us, tight with the electric tension. “What the actual fuck was that about?”
“Me not wanting to marry you?” She angles her head up to me. “You don’t want to marry me. Don’t pretend you do.”
I take a breath. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Her mouth curves in a vicious little smile. “So, you do want to marry me? And here I thought I was doing you a favor, helping you out of the embarrassing situation my family put you in.” She considers me. “You don’t want to marry someone like me, do you?”
Yeah, those fucking words and their meaning. Trust this woman to twist things around, to make it about how she’s somehow lacking. And I’m sick of it. Her pain hurts me.
“I knew it—”
“Mia, what the fuck?” I shift closer as she makes to move away. I’m not letting her. Maybe not ever again. “You stood there and said you were never getting married. Not me.”
“You were put on the spot. And for your information, why do I need to get married to you or anyone? Having a husband is not the ultimate goal. I have a career and I don’t need a man.”
“I’m not saying you have to get a picket fence and pop out kids and have a man, but that’s not what that was about.” I pause, take in her gorgeous face with the scar and the attitude she wears like the thickest makeup, or maybe armor. “Was it?”
Mia closes her eyes. “Leave me alone.”
“Not on your life, Mia.” I keep my voice soft, the core solid steel. “And open your fucking eyes.”
“I’m just going to say your feminism that’s made of tissue paper.”
She shoves me, and I take a step back, but then she tries to dart away from me.
I’m sick to death of her running when she crumbles. I’m sick of her fighting me. I’m sick of the walls and the hurt she inflicts on herself. But most of all, I’m fucking sick of her thinking she’s not worth anything when she’s worth the entire world.
I push her into the door and come right up against her. This time, I pin her there.
“Mia. You never have to get married. Fuck, don’t have a boyfriend if you honestly don’t ever want one.” I ignore the knife edge those words have when I say them. A knife’s edge that slices into me. “But that wasn’t about you wanting to live life your way. That was you running away.”
She tries to turn away, but I take her face and keep her head there, her gaze on me. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you a lot better than you give me credit for.” I let her go, but my hand is right there, on the wall next to her scar. “So cut that bullshit.”
“Stop.”
“Mia, sweetness, come on. If you can tell me that wasn’t you thinking you’re not good enough, then I’m fucking gay.”
“I’ll buy you your first Barbra album, hon.” Her eyes flash pure fire.
I laugh. “We both know I’m not fucking gay.” I touch her face again, this time sliding my finger lightly along her scar. “Is it this,” I trace it down her body, sliding it between her legs, “or is it this that makes you think that?”
