The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

Was he my protector or adversary?

I was tired of sorting through his mixed signals like it was Halloween candy, separating his actions by brand, intent, and flavor.

Whatever his reasons might be for treating me this way, I intended to keep away from him.

I was tired of chasing him around. Even though he’d done his fair share of showering me with averse, cold attention every time he wanted to get in my pants, there was always a static undercurrent between us. I was the pursuer, and he was the somewhat amused, precious prize. He tossed me around and played with me whenever he had a few minutes to burn but always went back to ignoring my existence.

This had gone on for a decade, reaching its peak these past weeks.

And I knew, with a clarity that stole my breath away, that I could spend the next decade being his casual plaything just as easily if I let it happen.

But I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I had aspirations. Dreams. Goals.

It was time to cut the cord. Not just with Sam but with everyone else in my life who assumed I’d cater to their every need and whim.

An hour and some change after I tucked myself into bed, I heard the door to the master bedroom creak open. I rolled in bed, turning toward the door.

Sam stood on the threshold, fully clothed in his suit, his hair a tousled mess, like he ran his hand through it a thousand times.

“Fine. I’ll fuck you one last time.”

I rolled onto my back, sighing as I whispered to the ceiling.

“Romeo, oh Romeo, wherefore art thou?”

He chuckled, stepping inside, interpreting my sarcasm as invitation.

Why wouldn’t he? I’d never denied him anything. Not when he intended to sleep with someone else the night I showed up at his apartment. And not at the charity event, when he brought a date who looked freakishly similar to me.

And tried to sleep with her, too.

“This’ll be the last time, Fitzpatrick. A farewell. There’s a reason why your brothers pay me extra not to touch you, and you just got a taste of it tonight. I’ll make your life a living hell and a short living hell at that.”

“Newsflash, Sam, you’re already doing that.”

He shifted closer but still far enough that I realized that despite everything—who he was, what he did, the general callousness of him—he was waiting for an explicit offer. He didn’t want to pounce and take me on his own terms. He wanted me to come to him willingly, desperately, lovingly.

Neither of us made a move.

I didn’t invite him into my bed.

He didn’t leave the room.

My thoughts swirled around in my head like the snowstorm outside, and I dug my heels into the mattress, refusing to give in to the urge to feel his body over mine, his skin against my own, his hot, sweet breath everywhere. His heat was irresistible in more ways than I could count.

“Well?” he spat out, all but sneering. “Am I going to stand here for long?”

Kicking off the blankets, I darted past him, out the door. He whirled, his brows pinching in a frown, following me to the living room.

I plopped down on the carpet, jamming my feet into my sneakers, lacing up.

“What are you doing?” he growled.

“I’m tired, Sam. Tired of you. Tired of us. Tired of this cat and mouse game. There’s only so much push and pull I can tolerate before it gets repetitive and abusive. You want me? You’ll have to get me. The hard way. I’m going to run, and you are going to catch me. If you don’t, you’ve missed your chance. How about them apples?”

He stared at me like I was crazy.

It was nighttime, and we were in the middle of the woods, in the midst of a never-ending snowstorm, with no cellular reception, no heat, and no food.

He had a point.

Scooping my phone, I slid my arms into the long plush sleeves of my coat. Sam stood there, motionless, watching me.

“You’re not roaming the woods,” he said dryly.

“You can’t tell me what to do, Brennan. You’re the hired help,” I spat out, bitterness exploding on my tongue. I was hurting because of him, so I wanted to hurt him back.

That was the excuse I gave myself, anyway, yet it didn’t make me feel any less horrible.

It was probably exhausting to be him. To constantly look for people’s weaknesses, press them where it hurt, and never allow yourself to be exposed.

The word ‘help’ seemed to set him off. He pounced on me so quickly his movements were a blur as he slammed me against the floor, my back plastered against the parquet wood. His arms bracketed me on either side of my head. His body was flush against mine. I tried to kick him in the groin, but he dodged me easily.