Page 14 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
His gaze is steady. “The shrimp cocktail.”
Unease runs through me. I loved the giant martini glass it came in. It made me feel grown-up before I could order drinks. “I never saw you.”
“Of course not.”
My eyes narrow. “Then how did you know what I ate?”
A low laugh. “Are you asking if I saw you in secret? If I had an arrangement with the proprietor to let me know when you had reservations?”
I shiver. “Did you?”
He brushes a thumb across my cheek. “Every time you felt a tickle on the back of your neck, I was there. Every time you felt eyes on you, they were mine. I stood in the shadows and watched you laugh, your smile like goddamn sunlight on my face after being buried alive.”
Anger rushes from me, swift and comforting. “That’s not right.”
“What makes you think I care what’s right?”
Of course he doesn’t. “You’re keeping me safe. Why? Out of the goodness of your heart?”
His hand shifts to my neck, long fingers gentle against my skin. “So bright. So beautiful. I used to wonder if it would burn to touch you.”
A slight squeeze and I flinch. “Now you know. It doesn’t.”
“Oh, little virgin. You definitely make me burn. And I’m addicted to being ash.”
For one breathless moment his fist closes on my neck. Tears sting my eyes. My lungs ache. He leans close and nips my lips. I don’t feel the sensation of his teeth until he releases me and sits back, the sting sharpened with the sudden inhalation.
I touch my lips. My hand comes away red. Blood. He made me bleed. And while part of me doesn’t fear him, the other part knows that I should. “Do you want me to be afraid of you?”
He cocks his head. “Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how I’m keeping you safe.”
I raise my chin, determined not to show him I’m shaking inside. “I’m not afraid.”
“That’s a problem,” he growls. “It would be a mistake for you to trust me.”
“I don’t,” I say, my hand up as if to ward him off.
He keeps coming. There’s no space in the limo, no air left. Maybe we do burn, because we’ve used up all the oxygen. I’m gasping.
“The way you looked at me,” he says. “Like we’re on a date. Like I’m courting you. Like maybe I’ll ask Mr. James for your hand in marriage, with a big wedding and a tall white cake.”
“That’s not what I think,” I say, but it’s a lie—a horrible lie.
“And you’re not completely wrong. I’m keeping you happy like feeding you treats through the bars of a cage, giving you a nice swing inside. Some colorful toys to play with.”
“Stop it. You want to push me away? Fine. Consider me pushed. You don’t have to hurt my feelings.”
“Yes, that would be contrary to my purposes. I prefer to keep you satisfied so that you’ll smile when I fuck your tight little pussy, so that you’ll hide your face when it hurts too much, bite your lip to keep from crying out. So you’ll let me hurt you.”
“You’re sick,” I hiss.
“Yes,” he says, reaching for me. “Sick. Deranged. Fucked in the head.”
Animal instinct sends me scrambling out of his grasp.
It’s fight-or-flight, and I already know how sharp his claws are. I pull the door handle, but it’s locked. How is it locked? I don’t have time to ponder the question, because his hand lands on my shoulder. That’s the only warning I have before his body cages mine.
My hands scrabble uselessly at the soft leather interior, knees pressed into the plush cushions of the seat. Every wrench of my muscles only pushes me deeper into his grasp.
Gabriel is impossibly hard behind me, around me, breath harsh against my shoulder. “Tell me I’m crazy.”
The word vibrates in my throat, almost formed, not yet sound. It would be so easy to call him that, and God, I wouldn’t be wrong. What kind of man holds a woman down in the back of a limo?
What kind of man keeps one safe by locking her in a tower?
“I’m crazy,” I gasp instead, because I trust him. Against reason. Against instinct. He put his hand around my throat, but I didn’t believe he would hurt me.
He groans, his hand moving the fabric of my dress. A warm caress up my thigh. A gentle nudge at the hem of my panties. A single swipe through the slickness at my center. “So hot.”
And it doesn’t hurt, not even when his fingers find my clit, when he pinches the sensitive skin, making my hips buck. That’s when I feel his erection, hard and irrepressible beneath the fabric of his suit. It’s a brand against my hip, marking me as his. I’m possessed by him. Owned. As much an object as any woman of ancient Greece—because nothing ever changes, not really. The societies we build, the secrets we hide. Men and women. The gods themselves.
