CHAPTER SIX
ITWOULD’VEBEENnearly amusing, the howl of rage that Olive let out, if he were not half so angry himself. This woman, this woman who had tied him in knots for years—when he allowed nothing to touch him, nothing to reach him—was now carrying his child.
Or not, she said.
As if there was a doubt.
And he’d have said she wasn’t. That he was sure she could not be, but it turned out he didn’t know her at all, and also that when it came to Olive he could not trust himself.
Few things would have outraged him half so much as that fact alone.
Add in that she was pregnant, and his rage was an Icelandic volcano.
“Your heir,” she said. “Your heir. I am the owner of one of the biggest tech companies in the entire world—”
“Soon to be former owner, though, I will keep you as CEO. Your image is a very important one. It’s part of the brand. I would never mess with such good branding.”
She did not seem quite so concerned about being tethered to an IV when she scrambled out of the nest of blanket she was in. “I will not lose my company to you.”
“Are you only just now taking me seriously?” He could see by the look in her eyes, that she was. That she hadn’t truly believed he was serious before. “If you play with dragons, you must expect to be burned, Olive. Your protestations are weak. You should’ve thought of it before you dared cross me. This is not a game. And it never was. Chocolate cupcakes notwithstanding. People enjoyed the show of you and I, and I find you amusing. But much like a child who needs to be taken in hand, clearly, you did not understand the severity of the consequences that lay before you. I am not to be trifled with.”
“Neither am I,” she said, rage seeping from her every pore.
And even now, even now with her looking wretched, dressed in that black turtleneck and black pants—the only thing she ever wore, and he would change that if she were his—her brown hair tied back in a low bun, and no makeup on her face, she was delectable.
Because he could well remember exactly how she had tasted. Exactly how it had felt to slide into her tight, wet heat. She had been so tight. So glorious.
And the fact that she had other lovers since then should enrage him—he had not been able to even look at another woman since he’d been with her—but instead, he found himself hard and throbbing as ever.
What she did to him was unacceptable.
It always had been, but before he had... He had wanted to protect her. From himself, and from the world. He’d felt...in awe of her. Proud of her. He’d used that pride to explain his attraction. The ferocity of it.
Now he had to face the fact he was but a basic man who had been blinded by the needs of his body.
She was not special. She was merely good at deceit.
She was not singular.
He would not forget that again.
And he sat there, watching as the bag drained. Watching as some color returned to her face.
They did not speak. And when the cycle was through, the nurse came in and detached her from the bag, taking the needle from her arm.
“Do you need some assistance getting her out to the car?” the nurse said.
“Oh, no need.”
And he swept her up out of the bed, taking the blankets with her. “I will make sure she’s comfortable.”
He expected her to fight, but instead, she was suspiciously limp, and he found he did not enjoy it. He preferred her hissing. He preferred her fighting.
But she seemed suddenly exhausted.
He carried her back to the street, to his car.
“To the airport,” he said.