She has absolutely no leverage.
“You can’t be serious,” she says slowly.
“Completely serious,” I drawl.
“That’s…” She struggles for words. “That’s not a reason! That’s what parents say to five-year-olds!”
“And yet, it’s still the answer you’re getting.” I can’t help the slight smile. She’s genuinely outraged at being told no, like it’s a foreign concept. “Let me guess—Connor gives you whatever you want. You’ve been getting your way your whole life just by asking nicely or pouting or deploying those big green eyes.”
“I don’t pout,” she snaps.
I gesture to her face. “You’re literally pouting right now.”
“I am not—” She catches herself, realizes she is, and her expression shifts to pure fury. “You’re an asshole.”
Shrugging, I inspect my nails. “I’ve been called worse. By you, actually. About five minutes ago.”
“You’re a cock-juggling thundercunt asshole,” she clarifies.
I grin at her. “There we go. Much better.”
Emma makes a sound of frustration somewhere between a growl and a scream, and I have to bite back a laugh because she’s so genuinely furious at me for not falling for her manipulation.
Princess Emma Brennan is not used to being told no.
She’s not used to her charms failing or being in a situation where she has absolutely no control.
“I want to talk to my father,” she demands aggressively.
God, she doesn’t know when to give up. “No.”
“I want you to let me go,” she orders.
“No.”
“I want?—”
“Let me save you some time,” I interrupt, leaning forward. My fingers lace through her updo at the nap of her neck, holding her secure so she has to listen to me. “Whatever you’re about to ask for, the answer is no. Whatever demand you’re planning to make, I’m not going to agree to it. Whatever manipulation tactic you’re preparing to deploy, I’ve seen it before and it won’t work. So you can save your breath, or you can keep trying if it makes you feel better, but the outcome will be the same.”
She stares at me with such pure, undiluted hatred that if I were a lesser person I would probably be uneasy.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses.
“Enjoying is a strong word.”
“Bullshit,” she cries. “You’re smiling! You’re literally smiling right now!”
I am, actually. Just slightly. I can’t help it—it’s entertaining as fuck watching Emma Brennan realize she can’t charm or manipulate her way out and for probably the first time—second if you include her almost marriage—in her privileged life, she’s powerless.
“I appreciate the creativity,” I tell her honestly, releasing her and leaning back. “The ‘I’m nobody’ approach was solid. The sick mother angle was a good emotional play. The aggressive demands were a nice change of pace. But none of it’s going to work, so you might as well save your energy.”
“I hate you,” she says flatly.
“That’s fair,” I concede.
“I hate you so much that if we were the last two people on Earth, I would rather die alone than speak to you.”
“Noted.”