“I did. I do,” I say, not bothering to answer the question about my meds. Shit, he doesn’t see me asking how he knows about the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding technique. And believe me, I really want to know. But curiosity and Asad are a bad mix. Like cyanide and living.
Instead, I lift my hands and circle his thick, tattooed wrists. I tug at them, trying to remove his palms away from my face, trying to insert much-needed space between us. But I might as well be pulling at a two-ton concrete block—immovable and pointless.
I suck my teeth. “It’s not like I take a pill and I’m cured. It’s not a disease. I live with it; I treat it. I manage it. Now, can you get your hands off of me and back up? Please?”
Maybe it’s the “please” that finally makes him decide to concede. He removes his touch, and relief rolls through me on a seismic tidal wave. My skin tingles, and I silently threaten my fingers with amputation if they dare caress the area that feels branded by his palms. My plea was enough of a sign of weakness; I’ll be damned if I give him another one. And Asad Prince has always been one of those give-an-inch-take-a-whole-fucking-country-mile muthafuckas.
No boundaries, that one.
Like right now. My relief shuts off like a celestial hand twisted a faucet as he drags an ottoman over and sits on it directly in front of me. With massive thighs spread wide, he pulls my chair even closer, and once more, I’m battling against the claustrophobic sense of panic scrabbling at my throat.
A loud, ominous silence pulls taut between us. His gaze runs over me from the top of my messy bun, over my bare shoulders, lingering on the thrust of my breasts and pierced nipples, and down to my dress-covered knees curled beneath me. Everything in between sizzles and hums under that all-seeing, all-knowing inspection.
I will not fidget. I will not fidget.
I will not admit that in one glance the seat of my panties is destroyed.
It’s wrong. It’s all so fucking wrong and a betrayal to the girl who was his victim for years. Disgust and lust twist and wrestle, and there’s no clear winner. That only makes me hate myself more.
“I had you hemmed up in the kitchen and you didn’t almost crash out on me. Why now?” he probes.
“You weren’t talking about binding me to you in matrimonial hell then,” I lie. “Which brings me back to the subject. Still a hard pass.”
He leans forward, propping his elbows on his thick thighs, his tatted hands dangling between his spread legs. I force myself to focus on those piercing eyes and not dip to the cruel yet beautiful curve of his mouth, the long, dark beard surrounding it, or the strong brown neck liberally painted with ink.
No, those ice-cold, pitiless eyes are much safer.
“Yesterday, you sat in the same will reading as I did where I inherited the Cross—”
“Stole.”
“—empire,” he continues, ignoring my interruption. “I already have muthafuckas gunning for me, ready to test me as the new head of this shit. You got me all the way fucked up if you think I’m going to just let you walk, taking away my main income source. And nah, I’m not reverse engineering shit when I have the scientist right here. And she’s not going anywhere.”
A sliver of ice slides down my spine, and my belly twists intotrembling knots. How the hell…? Sam would’ve never shared our private conversation with Asad. Never. So how is he sitting here repeating almost verbatim what I told Sam about leaving and taking the formula for Glass Slipper with me?
I narrow my eyes on him, but keep my expression schooled in the aloof mask that I’ve perfected over the years around his family. Or at least, I attempt to. It’s difficult when my insides feel scraped raw and bloody.
“Sitting there wondering how I know about your plans to try and leave me?” He arches an eyebrow. “When’re you going to learn ain’t shit around this mu’fucka that I don’t know? One being you’re not going anywhere except down the aisle. To me.”
He’s still on this bullshit, and I laugh, despite the alarm banging in my pulse, ricocheting off my skull.
Leaning forward, I shake my head. “You done lost your gotdamn mind. Even if I was going to marry—which Jesus Christ Himself would have to come down and do a burning bush, water-into-wine kind of miracle in order for me to even consider it—I would never make that mistake with a sample muthafucka like you. Respectfully.”
His thick beard can’t hide the tightening of his jaw, nor could he completely hide the flash of anger in his eyes like dry lightning.
I mean, I did say “respectfully.”
“A sample muthafucka?”
“Yes. ’Cause everybody gets to try it.” I dip my gaze down his large form and drag it back up. “If I was into that, I’d just hang out at Costco.” My bread and butter is death, but until this moment, I didn’t know I wanted to embrace it with open arms and a tongue fuck. And apparently, I’m not done. “And since we’re on the subject of husband material, what kind of sad bitch would I be to marry my childhood bully? A BookTok-made-for-Netflix-movie sad bitch, and she ain’t me.”
For several long moments, he stares at me, and the heat from those eyes… It slips around the front of my neck and tightensits hot, thick fingers. I try to drag a breath in, but that’s next to impossible.
“Ember, I promise you. The only thing I’ma bully is that pussy.”
Holy. Shit.
I blink. He… he’s never spoken to me like that.Noman has ever spoken to me like that. But Asad… Asad hates me as much as I detest him. So what in thefuckwas that?