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Specifically, since four days ago, after I dropped Aspen off at her apartment and she ghosted me.
“You didn’t say ‘the witch.’ As in, you didn’t assume it’s her, even knowing full well she’s my right-hand. What gives?”
It can’t be her, because she’d be serving herself on a platter to Nate, and while they’re close, she’s not close enough to anyone to let them see her weak.
Or disclose her past to them.
Or put herself in an unfavorable position in front of her daughter’s husband.
But what she doesn’t know is that the more she escapes into her cave, the harder I’ll chase her.
So what if she doesn’t answer my calls or my texts? I’ll eventually catch her.
The only reason I haven’t banged her door off its hinges and barged into her apartment is to give her that misconception of being safe.
Or that I’ve given up.
The surest way to get a guarded, careful person to open up is to delude them into believing they’re off the hook.
But if she thinks I would retreat now that I’ve had a taste of her, she has no idea what she’s in for. Because one time isn’t enough. I need to see her writhing again, moaning in that throaty voice, and shattering in front of me like an erotic art piece.
That scene from four days ago was so rare in its beauty and surprisingly breakable. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her so vulnerable with hints of a submissive that I’ll bring out if it’s the last thing I do.
Aspen Leblanc is the war I’m going to conquer and bring to her knees.
Literally. Figuratively.
I focus back on Nate, who’s been watching me expectantly. “Aspen is on vacation.”
He rakes his gaze all over the room, then gives me the same attention before he circles me like a poor imitation of a caged lion.
“Did you get high on your way here, Nate? Either that or I need to check you into a mental institute.”
“I’m just making sure I didn’t somehow land in a parallel universe since Aspen is apparently on her first vacation in a decade and you actually know her given name. I thought she only held the title of a witch in your repertoire of limited names.”
After doing two whole tours around me, he stops in front of me and narrows his eyes. “What the fuck is going on?”
I might’ve underestimated Nate’s deduction abilities and his dog-like nose, because he’s watching me with zero chances of him dropping this.
So instead of offering the truth that I don’t even like to admit to myself, I go with a tamer version of it. “She was assaulted.”
He pauses, his face hardening. “When? Where? How? Who?”
All the same questions I asked. And yet, I want to bash his head in for an illogical reason. Like why the fuck does he have that level of concern about her?
“Five days ago. In an alley. Physically. As for who, it’s still under investigation. She filed a report, but the incompetent police are coming up with nothing.”
And won’t. Because I already took care of it.
“Does the physical assault extend to a sexual one—”
“No.” I cut him off harshly, realizing I don’t want to discuss that particular topic with him, of all fucking people.
“Good.” He releases a breath. “Well, not good, but still. How bad is she?”
“Bad enough to be put on mandatory vacation. She was beaten to within an inch of her life but still wants to work as if nothing happened.”
“Aspen is a workaholic to a fault.”
