Giving him my back, I walk to the door. He can go to hell. I don’t make it two steps before strong fingers wrap around my bicep and spins me around. I balance on the balls of my feet, staring up at Leon’s enraged face.
“Last chance to be honest with me, darling. Did he put his dirty paws on you?”
That’s when I realize—truly realize—what Leon is capable of. He’s ready to commit murder, and he won’t bat an eye.
“I already told you.” My voice is hoarse. “No.”
“I guess it’s your lucky day,” Leon says, addressing the guy, but he’s not breaking eye contact with me.
Our gazes are locked in a stare-off I long since lost, one in which he’s the predator and I’m whatever he wants me to be.
The blond and the fight are forgotten as he leads me outside. The eye of the storm has shifted, its destruction now directed at me. It wreaks havoc silently, without stirring as much as a leaf on a tree, but there’s no doubt about the rage quietly brewing underneath.
He only speaks when we reach his car. “How much did you drink?”
“Enough to be over the limit,” I say, yanking my arm from his hold. “I prefer that you don’t touch me.”
“Is that right?”
He backs me up against the car, pushing my body flat against the passenger side without laying a finger on me.
“I have news for you, darling. You’re mine. You’re mine to touch whenever I want and wherever I like. Don’t make me prove that point to you here and now.”
Lifting my chin, I straighten my back. “Just because you pay for it doesn’t make me yours.”
The flare of his eyes is the only warning I get before he reaches out faster than lightning and locks his hand around my neck. He squeezes a little, just enough to make the threat clear, and brings his lips to my ear.
“That, wife, is where you’re wrong,” he says in a soft, dark voice. “You belong to me, and you always will.” Reaching around me, he opens the door. “Now get into the car and do not utter another word. I’m precariously close to losing my control.”
My defiant glare has no effect on him. He bundles me into the car and slams the door. Crossing my arms, I turn my face toward the window. Like he asked, I remain quiet while seething inside. My pride, humiliation, and anger fester into a dark pool of muddled colors, tainting my reason and my ability to think straight.
I bite hard on my lip to prevent myself from crying as Leon pulls off with screeching tires. I’ve always been too hot-headed for my own good. There always comes a moment when my emotions override my logic. I wish I could be more like my mother. I wish I could pretend it doesn’t matter and take it in stride, but my temper won’t let me. I always thought my mom had no self-control or good judgment, seeing how fast she falls for the wrong men, but now that I’m in the same situation, bound to a man with the rings on my finger, I know differently. Turning a blind eye takes an enormous amount of self-control, which I obviously don’t possess.
Instead of driving home, he heads toward The Brightwater Commons.
I don’t ask where he’s taking me or why. I’m too upset and hurt and also a little tipsy. That’s what I get for not being used to drinking hard liquor.
He parks near the back of the shopping complex and gets my door. Too stubborn to ask the questions he obviously doesn’t want to answer, I allow him to help me out of the car. He keeps a firm grip on my arm, guiding me toward a popular tattoo parlor.
The place stays open late on weekends. Did he arrange another interview for me? If so, I’m not in the best shape or state of mind to make a good impression. I already got the job this morning, but maybe he didn’t cancel this interview to give me another choice.
He drags me past a queue of people to the counter.
Someone calls out an insult, but one look from Leon shuts the guy up.
The young woman behind the counter frowns. “You have to get in line, sir.”
He takes out his wallet and slaps a stash of cash on the counter. “Emergency. Can you fit us in?”
She looks at the money. “Number three is almost done.”
“Great,” he says, giving her a humorless smile.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he manhandles me to a chair.
He doesn’t reply.
My stomach twists as he pushes me down into the seat. If anyone notices how he manhandles me, they don’t comment. Everyone minds their own business. I suppose it has a lot to do with the scary, bad boy vibe Leon gives off.
Five minutes later, a young guy wearing a sleeveless T-shirt steps from a room on the side and tells us to enter.
I swallow when I take in the equipment.
“What do you want?” the guy asks.
“Initials,” Leon says. “LH.”
My mouth drops open.