“Hold on, Helms,” he says to the person on the other end of the line without breaking eye contact. “Let me get back to you. I may have been mistaken.”
He hangs up and puts his phone down.
“What’s the matter, my little kitten?” he murmurs. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“He’s leaving, Tristan. He won’t ever be able to return,” I plead. “I won’t ever see him again. Isn’t that enough? Just let him go.”
His eyes betray his intentions as he takes a step closer to me.
“You know, this relationship is a two-way street, Saoirse. If you expect me to do something for you, you have to be willing to do something for me.”
I’ll do something, if that’s what it takes.
But not for him.
And in a way, it’s not even for Cillian.
It’s for myself.
I step forward instantly, wrap my hand around the back of his neck, and pull his face down to meet mine.
Our lips jam together and I let them come alive underneath his.
I don’t feel any morsel of the passion, the heat, the tension, or the desire that came with kissing Cillian.
But maybe, if I play my part well, I can make Tristan feel it.
That’s all that really matters anyway.
He doesn’t care what I want, what I feel, so long as I make it convincing for him.
Is it possible that sincerity is easier to fake than people realize? Or maybe my desperation is what makes it easier.
I squeeze my eyes shut and kiss him until my lips are raw and swollen.
Until my heart is throbbing with the open sting of betrayal.
Until I feel as though I’ve done enough to convince him that I will play along.
When we break apart, his lips are wet and his mouth is parted with desire.
I can see the naked lust in his eyes as they scour down my body, ripping me open and leaving me bare and vulnerable.
“That was… something,” he says with a satisfied nod. “How it makes me yearn for our wedding night.”
My gut twists with a strong wave of nausea at the thought, but I push it down and keep my body in check. I’ll need to develop a strong stomach if I’m going to survive this man.
“Good girl.” He gives me a nod that’s just as much of a dismissal.
It makes me wonder: is he really attracted to me?
Or is he just addicted to the power high he gets when he’s with me?
I turn to the glass of water on the counter behind me. I pick it up now and take a big sip, trying to wash the taste of him from my tongue.
When I finish the glass, I realize that Tristan has his phone pressed to his ear.
“Helms,” he says.