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"Why don’t we put it to the test, and you can tell me, hmm?"
Color flushes up her throat. "I’m not sure that’s a good idea."
I search her features, then nod. "Okay."
She seems taken aback. "That’s it? You’re just accepting what I said?"
"It’s your choice. You can stay and be fucked on every surface in this house and in every way and in every orifice over one night, and I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. Or you can leave, go home to your own bed, and I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.
Her forehead furrows. She glances around the apartment then at me. "My choice, huh?"
I nod.
"You won’t stop me if I leave?"
I hold up my hands. "I won’t."
She picks up her coat, shrugs into it, then picks up her bag. She hooks it over her shoulder, and the tempo of my heart accelerates. It’s as if wild horses have invaded my chest as I watch her head for the elevator. She presses the button to call the cage, and the doors part. Of course, they do. It’s my private elevator. Only I use it, so it’s always at my disposal. For the first time, I curse the benefits my money is able to buy.
I never missed it when I lived off my military salary. And didn’t pay much attention to the luxury that came along with moving into this flat. I needed somewhere high enough from the ground that I wouldn’t have to look at it and remember what it was like to be buried six feet deep. I wanted a place with enough light that there were no dark corners I could step into.
This penthouse delivers on all those fronts. I decided to move it because it would give me the solitude I crave. Now, I wish I hadn’t been so quick to seek out the trappings that feed my desire for seclusion. A first, since I returned from my captivity.
She steps inside the car and turns. Our gazes meet, then the door slides shut. She’s gone. I gave her a choice, and she took it. I could have commanded her to stay, and she would have. I could have asked her to strip, and she’d have gladly shed her clothes. I could have ordered her to bend over the chaise, and she’d have obliged.
Instead, something inside of me had wanted her to stay of her own accord, and she didn’t. She left. I turn and glance about the space. The sun has set outside, and the lights of the city shine up in a cloud of iridescence. They drown out the light from the stars above, so the sky is a flattened sheet of plastic. A void into which, if I shout, not even my echo will answer me back. Like my life. My heart. My soul, which is no longer mine. I head toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, then raise my arm and crash my fist into the windowpane. There’s a dull boom, then pain shudders up my arm and it feels… Cleansing.
Apparently, the only way to feel anything, other than when I’m being dominant, is by hurting myself. I stare at the fractured surface. This windowpane is not meant to crack easily. Not unless you hit it with the right pressure at the right angle and at the weakest point of the panel. All of which I seem to have accomplished. This time, luck is with me, or maybe, against me? Was it luck that had Adam come to my rescue at the right time? Was it luck that had us being captured in the first place?
The pressure presses down behind my eyeballs. My brain feels like it’s pushing against my skull. Sweat beads my forehead. I need to relieve the pressure. Right this second. I throw up my arm again, intent on punching through the glass this time, when the ding of the elevator doors opening reaches me. I look into the fractured glass surface in front of me and spot her approach in the reflection.
She sweeps her gaze down my body, and halfway across the floor, she drops her bag and runs toward me. "Knight!" When she reaches me, she takes in the lacerated skin over my knuckles.
"Oh, my god!" She reaches for my hand, and I pull it away.
"Get out."
"You’re hurt."
"I’ve been hurt before."
“You’re crazy."
Not enough.I pivot and head for the bar in the corner of the room. I reach for a bottle of whiskey and uncap it with my unhurt hand. Then, I chug down the alcohol. It goes down smoothly, leaving a burn in its wake. I take another sip, then turn to find she’s walking toward me.
"I told you to leave."
"I’m not going."
"You left earlier."
"I came back." She swallows.
"For what?"
She shuffles her feet. "You know what."
"No, I don’t. You need to spell it out."
