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I let myself out of her apartment, making sure to lock up—I can’t be letting any old psychopath inside.
I’m glad her body responds to mine, but I want the whole package. I want Amelie Brooks to feel as helpless without me as I feel without her.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but that’s not how this works. You chose me. I chose you. We haven’t fucked, but that’s only because I want you to get to know me first. We can skip ahead, though, if it means you start to understand that you’re mine.”
His eyes glint like shards of black onyx. “You have no idea how committed I am. If you did, you’d be the one running.”
“Is that … were you already tracking me?” I gape at him incredulously. “You told me you were fine with it.” “Starting now. I didn’t know you were already tracking me.”
Our locked stares go to battle. “Fuck, you’re stubborn,” he grumbles. “Like looking in a mirror, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure if you’ve already met, but this is Amelie, my future wife.” Girlfriend sounded too trite in my head—too transient.
If you ask me, women are incredible strategists and are totally underutilized in our society. We make jokes about how their brains are always on, thinking of a million things at once, then we limit their access to leadership roles. It’s the fucking dumbest thing in the world. Totally counterintuitive.
I gape at him and cover Freya’s ears. “Don’t you dare call my princess a killing machine.” He cocks a brow at me. “Babe, I didn’t pay fifty thousand for her to play fetch.”
“Baby, I stalked you, coerced my way into the apartment next door, then moved myself into your place—did you actually think I’d wait for a wedding when you agreed to marry me?”
