“I hired you because you wouldn’t go out with me. And the thought of anyone else touching you made me want to kill someone. This is my solution.” His voice softened, but the intensity was still there. “But make no mistake, sweetheart, the last thing I think of you is that you’re a whore. I’ll get you flowers every week for the rest of our lives, just so you know who you are.” “And who’s that?” I murmured, blinking up at him because it felt like I’d entered some surreal universe where beautiful boys turned out to be heroes instead of the object of my worst nightmares. “Mine,” he said simply.
