Butler?
His reply is instant.
Can’t find the fucker anywhere.
Motherfucker. My teeth grate as I keep eyes on three things. Beau, the road, and my mobile.
He’s tailing me. I’ve got Beau. He was following her.
A bend in the road ahead gives me the opportunity I need, I just hope there’s a turning off the main road soon after. Another look at the mirror. I need more distance, so I discreetly build up speed as we approach the curve ahead, just enough to gain more space, but not enough to rouse suspicion in Beau. The moment I take the bend, I look up, seeing the BMW out of sight. And ahead, the turn I need. I indicate, all rather considerately, considering the circumstances, and take the turn onto a small dirt track, stopping a few yards down. I look up at the rearview mirror.
“What are we doing here?” Beau asks, knocked from her quiet daydreaming.
My eyes remain on the mirror, and the second I see the BMW fly past, I turn into her and take her cheeks, kissing her hard, deep, and long. Her tongue surrenders to mine in an instant, swirling and rolling, her good hand in my hair. Thank God for her inability to resist me. I’m banking on it going forward. “Just in case you forgot what it feels like,” I say, my throat hoarse, slowing our kiss until our lips are merely touching and our breaths clashing. Her eyes are glassy. Her expression blank. “Don’t look at me like that, Beau. Don’t look at me like you can’t decide whether I’m worth staying for.”
She inhales, and thoughts run amok in my brain. What she’s been thinking. How she’s feeling. The pregnancy test. She seemed so accepting back at the graveyard, and now that look? It says too much. I need to get her home.
I slam the car into gear and reverse out of the track, pulling off fast.
If I was in the right mood, I’d be forced to hold back a smile when Otto’s face wrinkles in annoyance as we enter the lobby. Naturally, he was mortified he was given the slip. Naturally, he was worried I would turn psycho on him.
Naturally, I very nearly did.
I get Beau into the elevator, smacking the code in with a heavy touch. The doors close. She looks at me in the reflection of the mirror, so impassive. It’s killing me. She’s shutting down. Thinking too much. I shake my head mildly, silently warning her away from where her mind is going. She looks away. It’s not what I need right now.
The doors open, and I pull her out, leading her upstairs with a firm hold. I get her in my bedroom, place her before the frame, and start stripping her out of her clothes. She doesn’t stop me. But she also doesn’t help. Neither does she show any signs of being turned on. What the fuck has happened? Has her conscience found her? Her morals? I look down at her arm. I can’t restrain her. Hold her in place. Fuck.
I remove the sling and ease her shirt off before pulling her jeans down and casting them aside with her shoes. “Kneel,” I order, desperation getting the better of me. Docile and subservient, she lowers to her knees before me and looks up with vacant eyes, waiting for her next order. Shutting down.
I want escape, and I don’t want to be forced to explain why.
Fuck, no.
I could still restrain her. I could deprive her of release, make her beg and cry. I could shove endless objects in her arse and fuck her black and blue. But . . .
Not today.
I pull my T-shirt up over my head as she watches, unbutton my jeans and kick them off, and then fall to my knees in front of her. I’m surrendering. Giving in to this crazy. And by the fleeting look of surprise that passes across her expressionless, hauntingly beautiful face, she sees that. I take her hand and place it on my scarred shoulder.
She’s toxic. But to me, she’s a balm.
And I’m fatal. But to her, I’m life.
She takes in the damage under her fingers, flexing them into the shiny, pitted flesh. My skin sizzles. “You think you can fix me,” she says to her hand, her head tilting in thought, like she’s pondering that notion.
“I don’t want to fix you. I just want to love you.”
Her eyes turn to mine quickly, her fingers stilling.
“I’ve fought for power, Beau,” I whisper. “I’ve fought for freedom. For revenge. For hatred. But I’ve never fought for love.” And it’s the toughest fucking battle yet. “Can I win?” I ask, and she slowly lowers her arse to her heels, silent. Stunned. “Answer me,” I grate. “Because everything is fucking irrelevant otherwise.” I join her, settling my arse on my heels too. “So, can I win?”