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Besides, I don’t need her pretending she’s a tough cookie when she clearly isn’t. She doesn’t need to be strong. I am strong. I can destroy anything that threatens her—if she just fucking tells me where to come get her.
I know her perfectly. Better than she knows herself. She’s a tangled ball of self-doubt, foolish pride, dumb hope, brilliance, masochism, and blind affection. And I’m obsessed. I need her back.
He’s humming now, and then he sings. Soft and deep as his heavy steps pound behind me. Run, run, run—you’d better run.
“Got you,” he says, breath hot on my ear, and for just a second, my traitor body melts into his hard chest, my fear catching fire and flaring into something else, an unbearable anticipation that crystalizes into horror as he drawls, “Now what am I going to do with you?”
I always thought falling for the wrong man would be my downfall—like it was for my mom. Maybe it’s worse if the wrong man falls for you.
“So I’m a game to you?” It’s not an accusation; it’s a clarification. “No, not a game. You’re the one.” “Which one?” “The only one in the world.”
He’s money, and he’s danger, and he’s at my feet.