This is why.
This is why I won’t leave with Jimmy. Not without my money. I can’t.
I know he said, so sweetly and lovingly and God I love the fuck out of him, that he’d take care of me. But I don’t want him to. Mostly because I can take care of myself.
I can.
Despite what my devil guardian thinks.
I’m not afraid to work for it, to get a job — any job — to earn my money. But I’m not leaving here without the money that he has under his control.
But a second later, I regret my truthful rant.
Because he unfolds himself from his overstuffed armchair and comes to his feet.
And as soon as he does the room shrinks.
I’m not even lying. It fucking shrinks.
He dwarfs the big walls, the massive wall-to-wall bookshelves with his intimidating height, his impossibly broad shoulders.
While I’m watching that, watching his body take over the freaking building, he strangely goes for his cuffs.
He unbuttons them and, while keeping his eyes on me, proceeds to fold the sleeves up, one by one.
And for a few moments, all I can do is watch him do it.
All I can do is watch him expose his forearms.
No, he is exposing his very tanned and muscular and hair-dusted forearms.
Which makes me realize that I’ve never seen them before.
As crazy as that sounds.
Yeah, I’ve never seen his forearms and I’m losing my breath over them. Because they’re so masculine and pretty and distracting.
My focus comes back though when he takes a step toward me.
Making my eyes jerk up to his face. “W-what are you doing?”
“Telling you how to earn it.”
I have enough presence of mind to step back. “E-earn what?”
“Your money.”
I open and close my fists. “What does that… What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says and comes another step closer, “that unfortunately for you, my tyranny hasn’t ended yet.” Another step closer. “I’m still the devil. And you’re still mine. I control every little inch of your life, every little inch of you.” Another step. “And it means, Poe, that if you want your fucking money,” step four, “you’re going to have to do exactly as I say.”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, licking my dry lips.
His chocolate chip eyes flicker down to my mouth and I curse myself for bringing his attention to my lips. They tingle and shiver under his gaze.
Looking up, he says roughly, “I’m pretty sure we’ll figure something out.”
And then he takes another step closer and I know I should move back but I can’t.
I’m frozen.
First, because his eyes are glittering more than they ever have, and there’s a flush — dark and crimson — on his extraordinary cheekbones. And second, because I think all of that, the flush, the glitter, even the way his lips are parted and the way his chest moves as he breathes, makes him look… predatory.
Jesus Christ.
What is happening?
What is he saying?
In blind panic, my arms shoot out and I grab the first thing within my reach, a throw pillow.
Then without thinking I throw it at him as I take a step back.
No, two steps back.
“Don’t come near me,” I warn. “Do not come near me.”
The pillow hits him with a thump — hardly even ruffling his dark curly hair — and drops to the floor, and I hate the fact that in a room full of thick leather-bound books, the only thing I could find to attack him with was a stupid feathery pillow.
“Or what?” he asks, of course coming near me.
I keep backing away. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying...”
I trail off because I can’t even.
I can’t even complete my own sentence in the face of this. This crazy, absurd, incomprehensible turn of events.
He obviously does not have any problem being coherent though.
In fact, his voice is all breezy and casual as he asks, “What am I saying?”
Oh my God. Oh my God.
He’s saying… the most despicable things, isn’t he?
He’s saying that I do something in exchange for the money.
That I earn it by doing physical favors.
“My answer is no, you hear me?” I say, stabbing my finger at him. “A thousand fucking times no.”
“I thought you were ready to do anything,” he says in that same casual tone. “Including working for extra credit.”
“No,” I snap, moving back; the wall is near, I can feel it, God. “Not that. I’ll never do that.”
“Well, you’re eighteen now, aren’t you?” He cocks his head to the side. “It’s a perfect age to work for extra credit.” Then, “Legal age.”
“Oh my God, no. No. I swear to God, Mr. Marshall, I’m going to fucking scream.”
“It’s Principal Marshall now,” he corrects, his features growing more predatory by the second, and more beautiful too. “And I very much encourage screaming.”
My eyes almost bug out of my head at the innuendo. “I’ll throw up then. I’ll throw up all over your fucking Italian loafers.”