I walk over to him and put my hand on his cheek, but he moves his head.
"Don't do this," I beg.
He scowls, questioning, "What do you think this is between us, Blakely?"
The smell of scotch flares in my nostrils. I peer closer, assessing him, then accuse, "You're drunk."
It surprises me. I know how much Riggs hates intoxication. He told me about his mother and why he also gets so disgusted by my mother and her addiction issues. And, of course, I'll never forget how he acted the one time I got drunk.
He clenches his jaw. A small twitch forms. He reaches around my body, palming my ass, then moves his hand down and slides it underneath my nightgown. He repeats, "Tell me, pet, what do you think we are?"
My insides quiver. I ask, "Does it matter?"
He chuckles and takes a large gulp of his scotch. "I don't know. Does it?"
"Come to bed?" I ask and squeeze his hand. I pull, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he squeezes my ass harder, tugging me toward him until I fall over him.
I tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear, suggesting, "Why don't you take a shower and then come to bed?"
He drops the glass, and it shatters on the floor. His hand fists my hair, and he tugs my head back. He leans over me, snarling, "Answer my question, pet. What do you think we are?"
Tears form in my eyes. Emotions I've been holding in for the past few weeks overpower me. I admit, "I don't know. Whatever you want us to be. You're the one who gets to make the decisions, remember?"
"That's not what I asked," he snaps.
"Riggs, drop it. Just come to bed," I say again, but I'm suddenly afraid. When I'm with Riggs, I trust him. But the look in his eyes right now is so unhinged. There's no control in it anywhere, and that's not the Riggs Madden I know. Plus, I've never seen him drunk before. I know from my mother how someone can change when under the influence.
He glances at my lips, and I think he's going to kiss me. There's no doubt in my mind it's what we need. When Riggs allows me to kiss him, he always softens.
I slide my hand over his hair and push his face toward me, but he freezes, pausing an inch from my lips. He declares, "You're a temptress."
"I'm not," I state.
He grunts, claiming, "You know exactly what you're doing. Don't you, pet?"
"What are you talking about?"
He looks at me with disgust and rises, pushing me to my feet. He moves toward the bedroom door.
I follow him. "Riggs, where are you going? You can't drive like this."
He chuckles. "I can do whatever I want. I'm in charge. Remember, pet?"
I pull on his arm. "Riggs, you're drunk."
"So what?" he mutters.
"Stop. You can't go outside," I insist.
He grabs his keys off the table, then spins toward me. Anger flares on his face. "And why is that, pet?"
"Because I don't want something to happen to you!"
He grunts. "Why? Do you really care?"
"Of course I care. Why are you saying this? You know I care about you!"
He moves toward me, and fear reignites inside me. I step back, and he continues lunging toward me until I'm up against the wall. His rage radiates over me. He slides his hand on my cheek and rubs his thumb over my lips, seething, "Tell me what we are, pet."