The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

My voice faltered when I wanted it to sound confident. “You promised.”

He scowled. “I haven’t done anything.”

But the way he was looking at me was a clear violation, and we both knew it. He tore his gaze away, picked up the board, and set it on the desk. The moonlight rippled across his bare, strong back.

“I’ll have it fixed or replaced,” he said, arranging the pieces in the proper place. And then he moved a white pawn forward two spaces, the same opening from earlier.

I shot to my feet. “No. I’m not playing with you.”

He turned, giving me the full intensity of his expression, and my mouth went dry. “And I am done playing with you, Marist. You told me you loved me. You can lie and say you thought it was him, but we both know better. What you confessed was the truth. You were dying and had nothing left to lose.”

Fire smoldered in my bones and locked up my body. “No,” I seethed. “I don’t love you, Macalister. I can’t, because I hate you.”

The smile that spread across his face was slow and wicked. “You’re young. You don’t understand the way you feel about me, and that’s all right. I can be patient. In time, you’ll say it again.”

My eyes went so wide, it was painful. “You’re fucking delusional.”

His eyebrow arrowed up in irritation, although I wasn’t sure if it was the language I’d used, or the concept, or both. “Hate and love are nearly the same emotion—a powerfully strong reaction.” His tone was sharp and cutting. “Every one of the myths you enjoy is fueled by one or the other. How quickly does Persephone’s hate turn to love for Hades?”

Did he see himself as Hades? The desire to run filled every inch of my body, and I turned, practically sprinting toward the door.

“Marist,” he called after me, slowing my escape. “There’ve been exactly two other women in my lifetime who’ve said they hated me.” He was all intense eyes, gleaming in the low light of the room. “You should know, I married both of them.”

I ran from the library, not stopping until I was in my own room and I’d turned the bolt on the lock to my door.

As if it could keep out the horrible things Macalister had said.

I sent a text to Royce in the morning on my way to class.

Me: Sorry I left last night. Couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake you.

Royce: It’s okay.

But was it? That was the only reply I got all morning, and I spent a good portion of my day overanalyzing it. Had he woken up, discovered an empty bed, and felt bad? Or had he been relieved? I chewed at my nails during the lecture on corporate finance.

I’d missed several hours of class on Monday and Tuesday, but my professors were understanding. I was given reading assignments and notes from teaching assistants, and as soon as I returned home, I went to my room and delved in—determined to get caught up.

So determined, in fact, that it was after eight o’clock when I checked the time on my phone. Royce was typically home by seven, and we usually ate dinner together when we didn’t have a social obligation. Had he returned from the office and decided not to bother me? Or was he avoiding me?

His bedroom door was left open so Lucifer could come and go, but I could see the light wasn’t on.

Me: Are you still at the office?

Royce: Sorry. Working late.

Bubbles appeared as he continued to type.

Royce: Working on Ascension with my dad. Will be home late.

Disappointment I wouldn’t see him was slightly offset by the fact I wouldn’t have to see Macalister either.

As I ate dinner, I devised a plan. I didn’t have much experience in the art of seduction, but the only way to get better at it was to practice. It was just another form of manipulation, and I was a bit eager to try that kind out on the man who excelled at it.

He’d been my first in nearly everything.

So he could be the first to make love to me too.

And I’d make it impossible for him to avoid me. Armed with my course of action, I went into his room, all the way into his closet. The dress shirt he’d worn yesterday was still in the basket to be laundered, so I dug it out.

I stripped off the clothes I’d been wearing, dropping them in a heap on his closet floor, everything except the lacy panties I wore, then pulled on the white shirt that was too big for me.

It smelled like him. Woodsy and masculine.

The shirt hem barely covered my ass, and I only did up the bottom few buttons, leaving the top open so it was clear what I was and wasn’t wearing beneath it. The final piece was the green tie he’d worn the night he’d appeared in the library. I looped it around my neck and tied it loosely so the knot hung between my breasts.