Page 91 of Wicked Vile King
The distance between us makes my skin itch, especially when she has the collar off, leaving her unclaimed and notmine.
"I know you're afraid." I take another step. It's unbearable, the creepy-crawly feeling prickling over every part of me.
"And . . ."
She cuts me off with a raised hand and a sharp glare. Normally, I'd barrel forward and take what I want, but I think I'm finally starting to realize what the itching is.
Fear.
And like a pussy, it makes me even more afraid.
"When's my birthday, Saint?" she demands.
"What?" I scoff.
"When. Is. My. Birthday." She breaks apart the words with short spaces, and the creepy-crawly feeling tunnels down to my bones.
I think back to her file. Shit, what did it say . . . Shit!
"Exactly," she spits the word like I've gone and proven some goddamned point she's trying to make, only I have no idea what that point is.Fuck! I need to stop the itching.
"What's my favorite color?" she asks next.
"Red," I guess. I have no idea, and I don't really care right now.
The fucking itching.My fingers twitch. I don't know if they want to scratch every bit of my flesh I can reach or strangle her for whatever the fuck this test is.
"It's lilac. My favorite color is lilac, you asshole." She snickers, and it's an ugly look on her pretty face. It pisses me off even more, and the strangling just might win out. "What song do I listen to when I'm sad, hmm? What's my favorite food? What's my middle name, Saint?"
"Mae," I snap.
She ignores the one I get correct, and I just keep walking this time until the toes of my boots tickle her Chucks and she has to look up to glare at me.
"What's the one movie in the whole universe I know every line to?"
"What the fuck does it matter?" I shout, and it's thunderous in the echo-chamber of this small room.
"Because I want to know yours!" she shouts back, pointing a finger at me, digging the digit into my chest and leaving it there. "I want to know your birthday, your favorite color, your favorite food, the music you listen to, your middle name, your go-to movies. I want to know, and you don't even care to ask me about mine."
What the fuck is she going on about?
"You've never asked me any of that either," I say. I honestly don't know what I would have done if she had. She's a pet, not a person, and pets are supposed to listen and do what they're told, not ask ridiculous questions.
The itching.
"I would have eventually," she says softly, crying again. A fresh round of tears slicks her puffy, puce-colored cheeks.
I scoff. "Whatever you gotta tell yourself, Willow."
The. FUCKING. Itching!!!!
"I would have!" she claps back. "If you weren't too busy collaring me or locking me in dark places or licking my scars or cutting me open or fucking that lady in the library orfuckingme."
Whatever bit of self-control I have left shatters like glass beneath the swing of a baseball bat. I grab her by the throat and reel her face in close, until she's on the tips of her toes, and her face is more purple than red, and the vein that runs across her temple juts outward with her every floundering breath. I don't know if I'm going to kiss her or kill her. It's fifty-fifty odds on both.
"I won't apologize for it, pet," I snarl, "not any of it. I didn't do it just for me. I did it for you too. I collared you to protect you. I locked you in the dark to make you stronger. I licked your scars and cut you open to try to make you accept what you are. And I fucked the librarian's ass to force you to admit that you wanted to be mine, but you are so infuriatingly stubborn you still believe you're the good girl from down south. Youstillrefuse to recognize what you are."
I scoff. I can't believe I'm having to spell it out for her. "It's not like I gave her a collar, pet, and I had to watch you the entire time to get off. Then you finally accepted and I fucked you, and you sure as fuck weren't complaining when you came all over my dick."
