ANTON
“You really are a son of a bitch,” she snarls, face twisted up in anger.
She slams her palms against my chest. I can tell she’s throwing all her rage behind the move, but I barely feel a thing.
I keep her trapped between my arms. She thinks it’s to make a point. But I made my point a while ago.
This is about what I want.
And even if she doesn’t know it… it’s what she wants, too.
The girl has viper eyes and an angel’s smile. She can give as good as she gets. But there’s an innocence that still clings to her no matter how hard she tries to buck it. She’s desperate to hold her own against me, but she’s too proud to admit that she’s completely out of her depth.
I don’t mind. It just makes the game that much more fun.
“Get. Off. Of. Me.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d listen if I believed that was what you really wanted.”
“I’m fucking serious,” she growls at me—or, more accurately, at the floor between her feet, since she’s avoiding my eyes like she’s worried she’ll turn into stone if she meets them. “Let me go or I’ll scream so loud the whole building will hear.”
I tsk quietly. “You don’t want to wake up Mrs. Donnelly, do you?”
She freezes between my arms. “How do you know Mrs. Donnelly?”
I ignore the question. I only met the woman a few minutes ago, but if Jessa wants to think that I know more than I do, that’s no problem. “Sweet old lady. Doesn’t have much patience with the grandkids.”
“Jesus. How long have you been watching me?” she asks as panic starts to edge in.
“Long enough to know that you’re going to cave long before I have to break you.”
Her eyes harden to steel. “Then you don’t know me at all.”
I drop my arms and walk away before she can. I meander toward her bookshelf. It’s chaotic, spines facing in and out and up and down, pages dog-eared, covers missing.
“Have you really read all these?” I ask, grabbing a paperback and flipping through the pages.
“I’ve read all the recipe books,” she says hesitantly. “And most of the others.”
“What about this one?” I snap the book shut and hold up the cover. “You like him?”
“He’s a good writer.”
“He’s unoriginal,” I correct. “Afraid of the truth.”
She moves into the living room, making sure to keep the coffee table between us. As if that could possibly stop me. “How do you figure that?” she asks.
“The good guy always wins in the end,” I tell her. “He writes lies.”
“Oh, I see,” she scoffs. “You’re trying to tell me that this is real life and in real life, the villain always wins. A.K.A… you.”
I smile. “I’m trying to tell you that in real life, there are no heroes and villains, Jessa. In real life, it’s just eat or be eaten.”
“Not in my life.”
“That kind of naivete is exactly why your fiancé cheated on you as long as he did,” I snarl. “If you keep thinking of life as a fluffy romance novel, you’re going to keep getting hurt.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. It doesn’t matter. Nothing she can say will change what I know is happening behind those pretty little eyes. The fear. The doubt. The longing.