Descent (Black Heart Romance)

He’s wrong, and so frustrating that I just want him to leave. Displeasure niggles at me for the lie I’m about to tell, but I know it’s ridiculous to feel bad for lying to this man after what he has done. “Fine,” I say shortly. I won’t actually do it, but for him to believe he’s won, I’ll need to seem angry about it. “What time?”

His lips curve up, pleasure transforming his harsh determination. “Seven o’clock. I’ll send a car for you.”

“I would prefer somewhere public. I would feel safer.”

His smile shifts, taking on a sinister tilt. “You are as safe as I want you to be, Hallie. Always, regardless of our venue.”

My stomach flutters at the dark promise in his words. It flutters as if I’m really going to meet him when I know I’m not.

If I were really going to meet him, I would have a lot more questions.

I’m a little worried about his threat, though. What will he do when I stand him up?

I try to imagine it. Summon a vision of him sitting alone at a table in an expensive Manhattan restaurant a half hour past the time I was supposed to arrive. I picture his commanding presence, his simmering disappointment as he swirls the alcohol in his glass before taking a swig, then sits it down with a decisive thud.

No, wait, that’s not right.

It would be anger, not disappointment.

Disappointment comes from a genuine place; anger would be the feeling if he was only responding to my defiance.

Following some instinct I don’t quite understand, I look over at him. “How will you feel if I don’t show up?”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“Yes, I know you’re arrogant,” I murmur, wanting to get past that to the real answer.

Some men look at women as disposable, interchangeable. Objects to be used up and tossed out, then easily replaced with another. After what he did last night, it would be easy enough to imagine he’s exactly that sort of man.

But there are brush strokes that don’t quite seem to fit that picture, too.

If he’s a mean, angry man who means to bully me and bend me until I break, then he’s the kind of asshole there are tons of in the world, decidedly unspecial. And even though I know it will mean I have to go through hell over something that was done to me, maybe I should shoulder that burden and go to the police. Even if his expensive lawyers let him skate and he never has to pay for what he’s done, I would have a record of harassment started. I could file a restraining order. He could be literally dangerous, after all. Angry men kill women all the time.

Maybe it’s crazy to imagine he might be any other kind of asshole, but there’s an odd gentleness in the way he’s handling me despite the brutal force he’s trying to exert.

I don’t know.

Something feels off, just not quite what I expect.

Seeking to understand where that’s coming from, I hold his gaze and press deeper. “But how will you feel if I don’t show up?”

He cocks his head and watches me, almost like he’s trying to figure me out while I’m doing the same to him. “Hypothetically?”

I roll my eyes and humor him. “Sure.”

His gaze drifts for a few seconds as he thinks, then meets mine again. “Bereft.”

I take a deep breath, unprepared for that answer.

Bereft.

That’s much closer to disappointment than anger.

It certainly doesn’t imply he views me as disposable or easily replaced.

Sure, he could be lying, but he seems pretty adamant about his honesty, and I can’t deny he has been honest about things most people never would.

For a split second, I feel conflicted.

My first instinct today was to get him away from me, of course. But right now, in this moment, talking to him and actually trying to get at the core of who he is…

I don’t hate it.

My lack of relief a moment ago flits across my mind. Is it possible I didn’t feel relieved when he told me he would leave because… some part of me doesn’t actually want him to?

No.

That’s sick.

It can’t be that.

Right?

I shake my head to clear it of the insane impulse to actually go to that restaurant. To truly meet him somewhere public and safe so I can see more about who he is.

It doesn’t matter who he is, not after what he did to me.

Right?

Discomfort wraps around me with the snugness of a glove and I want to peel it off, so I need him to leave.

Avoiding his gaze, I grab the drink he brought me and take a sip. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Don’t send a car for me. I’ll feel more comfortable if I bring myself.”

He regards me carefully for the longest moment of my life. My heartbeat skitters and pounds beneath his scrutiny. Finally, he reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a rectangular card.