The fib rolled off my tongue and I let the truth sink into darkness. I loved him; that was real. But I was also worried that he would go too far. That his thirst for vengeance overshadowed everything—even me.
He sucked in a breath, his eyes never leaving mine. He knew I offered an olive branch, but at the same time he was wary that I wasn’t entirely happy.
Sighing, he nodded. “Buttercup, you have my ultimate word. When this week is over and everything has gone to plan, we’ll go away. Just the two of us. We’ll go wherever you want. England to visit your foster family, or some tropical hideaway in the middle of nowhere. Whatever you need, I’ll do.” Bringing me close, he breathed, “Okay?”
I swooned into him, pressing my cheek against his tie. “Okay.”
Just please let this week go smoothly. Please don’t get hurt.
The tension between us disappeared as quickly as it’d arrived. Arthur let me go, taking another sip of his drink.
His throat tensed as he swallowed and once again desire thickened my blood. His chest rippled as he moved, every inch of his tailored suit hugging his incredible physique. Women watched him, interest sparking in their gaze despite wedding rings wreathing their fingers.
I’m completely out of my depth.
And completely possessive.
“You’re far too handsome for your own good dressed in that …” I waved at him as if his perfectly sewn suit offended me.
My petulant voice rose Arthur’s eyebrow while a sexy smirk twisted his lips. “What did you just say?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You heard me.”
A sly glint glowed in his gaze. “You’re right. I did hear you.” Taking a step, our bodies aligned like colliding asteroids. “Are you jealous of them looking? Doesn’t it turn you on knowing you’re the only one who gets to see what’s under my suit? That you’re the only one who holds this.” Stealing my hand, he placed my fingers over his heart.
He brushed his lips against my ear. “Because I get hard seeing the way men look at you, knowing you belong to me and only me.”
His breath sent goose bumps splattering down my arms.
Chuckling, he let me go and I took a reinforcing sip of chilled bubbles. “Let’s just say I prefer you in mud-stained jeans and weathered leather.”
“Why?”
“Because a biker president scares the bejesus out of everyone.”
My lips parted as Arthur wrapped his arm around my waist, pressing me hard against him. The rapid thickening in his trousers made my insides melt. “I’m still scary … even if I’m wearing a tie.”
I struggled to continue with the conversation. We’d bounced from lust to anger and back again. And now all I wanted to do was drag him away from this hoity-toity crowd and prove to myself that despite his plans and headaches and stubbornness he was still the boy from my past.
Nothing was complicated as long as we remembered that.
I whispered, “Not to me.”
His eyes burned deep emerald holes into my soul. “No, not to you.” He kissed me quickly. “The minute I’ve spoken with Senator Samson, I’m having you.”
Having me?
As in sex?
“What, here?” I squeaked.
He inhaled deeply, dragging my spritz of perfume—orchids and summer sunshine—into his lungs. “Here.” Laughing softly, he looked around the room as if seeking a dark corner in which to carry out his threat. “I’m going to sink inside you somewhere inside this house and prove to you that it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing or what situation we find ourselves in, I’m still yours.” His eyes shadowed. “For some reason, I think you need reminding of that.”
My heart expanded with love.
Letting me go, his hand disappeared into his trouser pocket. Opening his fingers, he said, “See?”
My muscles locked. The worn Libra eraser rested like a talisman in his palm.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “Do you take it everywhere?”
Tucking it away safely, Arthur nodded. “Every day. It started off as something I hated because it reminded me too painfully of you. But every time I went to throw it out, I couldn’t. I couldn’t remove you from my life.” He shrugged. “It became a good luck charm and I grew superstitious that if I didn’t have it with me, my luck would run out and I’d end up even more alone.”
Right there. What he just said. That was why I was petrified of the future, of what he planned to do. That after all this time apart we would end up more alone than before—all because he couldn’t move on.
Closing my hand over his, I pushed aside my worries.
With a ruthful smirk, he linked his fingers with mine. “Come. I think it’s time I introduced you to Samson.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kill
Wallstreet had taught me something invaluable.
A lesson I’d never thought to consider. Cleo was dead and I was all alone. I drowned in guilt, festered in heartache. I was weak.
But in Wallstreet’s eyes, I wasn’t weak. I was perfect. Because without pain, I couldn’t be strong enough to do what he truly needed me to do. He’d said I was the Armageddon that he’d been waiting for. And it was up to me to use my pain to deliver others’ happiness. —Kill, age eighteen
Sometimes ignorance was easier than knowledge.
I’d been that way once upon a time. I’d been a child, believing in fairness and truth. I’d been a teenager, believing in togetherness and love. And I’d been a man, stripped of all hope by lies.