“What do you want?” I gulped. I wanted him to make it stop too, and I wasn’t even sure what it was. But it was there. I felt it too.

“I want to fuck you and watch your face while I do. To see how you drown in me as I hurt you as much as it hurts me to have to see your goddamn face every day.”

I sucked in a breath. Not sure how to respond, I raised my hand to slap him across the face. He captured my wrist, stopping me before my palm reached his cheek, and shook his head slowly.

“You need to earn the right to slap me, Pink. And you’re not there yet.”

Pink. My heart stuttered.

I was horrified that he affected me this way. It seemed like no matter what he said to me, he always left a dent. In my brain. In my thoughts. Making me dissect him. But with him here, admitting to wanting to have sex with me… something changed.

We were flush against each other, and I was drunk on his scent and high on his face, and oh my Lord, I knew we hadn’t done anything, but it felt so much like cheating. Self-loathing made my stomach churn. I wiggled my wrist free, trying to push past him. But he wouldn’t let me go.

“Ask me what I want,” he ordered again, his pupils so wide his eyes were almost completely black.

He was following me again, matching me step for step. My wrist was still clasped in his hand, and a part of me wanted to know what it’d feel like to fall into his claws. But this chase was going to end soon.

The back of my knees hit my bed, and the hunt was over.

“What do you want?” I obeyed him, asking the question not because I had to, but because I wanted to know what vile thing he’d say next. It was bad. It was immoral. And it was the moment I knew I should break up with Dean. I should’ve never agreed to date him in the first place.

“I want you to kiss me back,” he whispered into my face, his breath tickling my cheek. So close.

“But you—”

He shut me up by slamming his lips on mine. They were warm and sweet and right. Not too wet and not too dry. His kiss was carnal, deep, desperate, and I felt dizzy—breathless—the weight of his muscular body pinning me to the edge of my bed, seconds from pushing me onto the mattress.

But I wasn’t going to cheat on Dean, no matter what I felt. It wasn’t who I was. So despite the tingle sizzling down my spine and to my toes, I jerked my head to the side, looking at the floor and pinching my lips together. I covered my mouth with one hand to make sure he didn’t try to do it again.

“Get out of my room, Vicious,” I said through my shaking fingers. It was my turn to order him.

He stared at me intently for a few heartbeats. I saw him from the corner of my eye, angry and…defeated? It was the first time I’d hurt him back, and even that was only because I absolutely had to.

I wasn’t a cheater.

But not hurting Dean felt like crap, because I’d hurt Vicious instead.

It took him a few seconds, perhaps less, to compose himself.

Then he leaned forward. “Ask me again,” he said for the third time, a sly smile on his face.

I closed my eyes and shook my head no. I was done playing his twisted game.

“Ask me how she tasted when I kissed her tonight after we threw you out of the media room. Your sister, Rosie.” His voice was velvet, but his words were poison, and I crumbled inside.

It hurt me more than I could ever describe, because I knew it was true. He sliced through my flesh, leaving pain with every stroke of his imaginary knife.

“Let me give you your answer, Help. She tasted like you…but sweeter.”

The Present

“IT’S OPEN.”

Help waltzed in, and holy fuck, what the hell was she wearing?

She looked like she’d gotten lost in Keith Richards’s closet and barely survived to tell the tale. She wore leopard leggings, ripped at the knees, a black Justice tee (the band, not the philosophical theory), a checked raincoat, and cowboy boots. Her lavender hair was mostly covered by a beanie, and she held two Starbucks coffees, taking a sip from one. She looked like the PA of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar financial company like I looked like a prima ballerina. If this was another way to show me she didn’t give a shit, it worked.

“Hey.” She slid one of the Starbucks cups across my desk. It bumped into my forearm.

I glanced at it without touching it, returning my eyes to my laptop screen. “What the fuck is this?” I wasn’t completely sure if I was referring to her outfit or the Starbucks. Was this Halloween? I checked my calendar just in case. Nope. We were definitely deep into December.

“Your coffee. Your breakfast awaits in the kitchen.” She threw her Harley Quinn courier bag across the brown leather sofa in the corner of my office.

It took everything in me not to toss the coffee against the wall and send her on her way back to unemployment. I reminded myself that I hadn’t hired Help for her magnificent PA skills or her fashion sense. I needed her. She was a part of a bigger plan, and I was gearing up to execute it. Soon, she was going to be worth the money and the glitzy apartment.

And she is better than my ex-psychiatrist for the testimony, with her big innocent eyes.

Fuck. The apartment. In my quest to convince her to take the job, I threw out a lot of shit I needed to back up now.

I sucked in my cheeks, feeling my jaw locking. “Get me my breakfast,” I hissed out.

“No,” she replied evenly, clearing her throat and tilting her chin up. “Your highness, I request that you go to the kitchen and have breakfast with your loyal subjects. I believe it’s important that you familiarize yourself with your colleagues. Did you know half the floor is sitting there right now? It’s French Toast Friday.”

She tilted her chin even higher, inspecting me.

Of course I didn’t fucking know that. The very notion of getting out of my office and spending time with those people who I didn’t know or care about was making my insides bleed.

She stared me down, and I wondered what was going through her little purple head. Actually, I was also interested in the origins of that lavender hair. I didn’t hate it. It suited her round face and eccentric style. She knew—Emilia LeBlanc fucking knew—she could bring a man to his knees, so she never bothered with pretty dresses and makeup. She wasn’t a tomboy—in fact, today she was even dressed up in her own weird way. Her hair was always a mess, though, and she looked like one of those urban New York chicks who carried professional cameras around, taking photos of their Pret A Manger breakfasts and pinning them on Pinterest, genuinely believing that they were legit photographers.