Page 68 of Save Me

He steps back and eyes me with a dark, hooded expression, one that has me swallowing hard and trying to talk my heart into slowing down before it passes out. Perspiration is already covering my back, while my mouth is so dry, there isn’t any possibility of me responding in any way other than to anxiously stare at him. Fortunately, someone coughs from behind, prompting his whole body to shift away so he can turn around to see who it is.

“Oliver!” Again, an older man, beams at my fiancée with confidence and genuine pride. He then hugs him fiercely before breaking away to shake his hand.

“Father!” Oliver smiles tightly, which I consider a slightly weird reaction to give one’s father on such an occasion. However, I’m sure the whole pack of people in here are well versed in peculiar traits. “May I introduce you to Beth, my fiancé, and your soon to be daughter-in-law.”

The man before me is impeccably dressed, with a vanity that is obvious from the way he keeps his facial hair perfectly manscaped, and his hair slicked back with far too much product. Now that I look at him more closely, you can see he is Oliver’s father with his sandy hair and azure blue eyes. They also have the same build and the same dimples when they smile. His father eyes me with appreciation, one that makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. I’m not the only one who is disturbed by his expression because I soon feel Oliver’s arm pulling me in tightly against him, at the same time as offering his father a threatening grimace.

However, Oliver’s behavior doesn’t perturb my future father-in-law from taking hold of my hand and leaning down to kiss it with a wicked grin on his face. In fact, I think Oliver’s predatory grimace only spurs him on. As he straightens himself, his eyes trace a line up my body, lingering a little longer on my ample chest inside of this uncomfortable dress. He then emits an eerie and gravelly noise from the back of his throat, and he looks into my eyes in such a way it has me feeling as though I am standing naked before him.

“You truly are beautiful,” he murmurs with my hand still gripped inside of his. If we were a pack of dogs, both Oliver and his father would be trying to piss around me before descending into a fight to the death. For all I know, Mayfield might encourage this sort of primitive behavior. They may be rich and powerful, but there’s no denying they’re a little backward in their thinking. “My son is an extremely lucky man.”

“Enough, father!” Oliver threatens through his teeth, pulling my hand away from his and placing it firmly at my side. “She is not yours to touch.”

His father merely chuckles as he holds his hands up defensively, clearly amused by his ability to rial his son by acting flirtatiously and creepily towards his fiancé.

“Relax, Oliver,” he says, then winks at me, stimulating bile to climb up my throat. “I can understand why he is so possessive of you, but my son should learn to keep his feelings better hidden.” He then turns toward Oliver with a warning, “There are far more dangerous men than me who will like a pretty face like hers. Some of them inside of this very room!”

“Drop it! Stop scaring her!” Oliver barks at his father before pulling me away from him altogether, thus leaving the self-satisfied older man to walk over to someone else to creep over.

“What did he mean?” I ask anxiously. “Am I in danger here, Oliver? Because that is not what I signed up for!”

“You’re signed up whether you like it or not!” he growls, looking clearly irritated and ready to bite. “Besides,” he says when we come to a stop, “if anyone does anything to hurt you, they will be dead. Literally wiped out!”

“Well, gee, now I feel so much better,” I reply sarcastically, snapping before I’ve had a chance to cover up my natural response to such a statement. Acting the Stepford wife who still lives in the past and speaks as such, is thoroughly exhausting and sometimes causes me to slip.

“Careful, Beth, don’t make me angry when you’re currently in my good books!”

After my fiancé’s reprimand for speaking a fraction of my mind, I am pulled in multiple directions to meet various people who he deems worthy of his time. Some are family, some are business colleagues, most are highly respected members of the Mayfield organization, and consequently, all older, self-important men. I am yet to meet actual friends of Oliver’s or anyone who is anywhere close to my age. Many of them eye me like a prized possession; a fragile piece of history to be marveled at openly and without apology for staring or gasping in my direction.

Between the many older people who I meet, I am told the sad story of how my grandfather had pined for my grandmother, and what a wicked, selfish woman she was for stealing his unborn child away. Oliver is quick to reassure them of how our alliance will bring order and respect back to the Steele name, laughing smugly as he does so. It doesn’t seem the least bit strange to these people that I remain straight-faced and silent throughout. Instead, they clasp at my arm, telling me how lucky I am to be engaged to such a highly respected and handsome man who is set for big things within Mayfield.

Finally, when I’m ready to impale myself upon the nearest sharp object, we come to a couple who must be of about Oliver’s age, the youngest people in here. They look extremely similar to one another, being both very beautiful and ethereal in appearance. The woman with long, red, flowing hair, reaches her hand out for Oliver to kiss, which he does so in a rather robotic fashion. The whole time, she looks at him as if he is some kind of God, one who she would like to worship intimately. In contrast, the man, who resembles a young Damian Lewis, does not look so keen, but manages to smile politely when he shakes his hand. However, when he leans down to kiss my hand, he makes a point of hovering over it for a few moments before giving Oliver a contemptuous grin. Oliver’s jaw ticks angrily and it is mere seconds before he pulls me back to claim as his, reminding me of the aforementioned pissing contest.

“Oliver,” the man laughs with a mocking chuckle, “still possessive of your toys?”

“I wouldn’t tease a man in my position,” Oliver replies coolly. “Besides, you should know when a woman is clearly out of your league, Marsdon.”

“Miss Taylor, I presume?” The man looks to me in question, still with a taunting smirk written all over his face. “Or is it Miss Steele? I no longer know what to call you. What say you, Beth, would you say I’m out of your league?”

“She’s soon to be Mrs Lawrence and is very much off limits!” Oliver growls with a glint of fury in his eyes. “Beth, do not talk to this man, ever! Do you understand me?”

The things I would say and do if this were a normal relationship, run through my head at a rapid pace. However, seeing as it is anything but, all I can do is look away, feeling embarrassed by his ordering me around in front of complete strangers. Marsdon chuckles into his drink before taking a gulp, clearly amused by Oliver’s jealousy, as well as my humiliation. I can safely say I don’t like him either.

“You already have her well trained, Oliver,” the woman chimes in, also finding this highly amusing. “I guess children are easier to school than proper women.” She leans in to talk more intimately inside of Oliver’s ear, even with me being right next to him with his ring on my finger. “When it’s her bedtime, why don’t you let a real woman come and warm you?”

The gasp of audacity escapes me before I can stop it, and with it, an attempt to shuck loose of Oliver’s firm grip, even though I know he won’t let me. All I achieve is him glaring at my attempts to break free from him, with his eyes threatening to inflict something wicked if I continue to try and fight him.

“Leo!” he shouts for my usual bodyguard but with his stormy eyes still fixed upon mine.

“Yes, sir?” Leo appears almost immediately, dutifully answering his king.

“Show Mr and Miss Marsdon out,” Oliver orders with a no-bullshit-to-be-taken message behind it, “they are no longer welcome here!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Miss Marsdon, aka snake woman, spits at him, all the while her creepy, chuckling brother continues to find the whole ordeal hilariously funny. “I’ve been itching your scratch for over ten years and you’re throwing me out?!”

“I no longer wish to slum it,” he mutters with a sneer upon his lips, now only paying attention to the cufflink he’s currently adjusting on his jacket sleeve. “Why would I when I have the best on my arm? Please don’t make a scene as you leave; it is most unbecoming of a Mayfield lady!”

Even I feel horrible for Miss Marsdon as she flips him the bird and is ushered away by Leo. Her brother continues to stare at me, smirking lasciviously, before finally turning to leave with his sister.

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