Page 39 of Pretty Little Threats

His chest is heaving as hard as my own.

And then, he smirks. “You’re fucked, princess.”

After the call with my dad, Dare contacts someone who will deal with Eric’s body, then gathers a few essentials in an overnight bag—the murder weapon being one of them—before carrying me out to his car, bridal style.

My fingers grip his shirt, and I studiously ignore the hard pecs underneath the fabric. “I can walk,” I insist.

“Quiet,wife.”

I swear I’m going to castrate him.

“So violent for a pious princess,” he murmurs, like he can read my mind.

“Maybe you can teach me a few things, hmm, beast?”

Dare stops beside his car, upper lip curling as he stares down at me. “Keep running your mouth and see what happens.”

“And what exactly are you going to do?” I snap. “Force yourself on me? The last man who tried that is dead.” A new wave of disgust rolls over me. I’ve traded one monster for another.

Dare lowers me and sets me on the ground.

My teeth grind together. Even with the bandages and the flats, the wounds hurt with pressure on them, but there’s no time to worry about that. Dare’s arms trap me against the car as he presses into my space.

“I won’t need to force myself on you,” he growls. “You’ll cry for my cock, ache for it. Mark my words, you’ll beg me to take you, Rose.”

“Doubtful,” I say, but my voice comes out breathy.

“Keep lying to yourself,” he says. “But I know that pretty cunt is probably weeping for me right now.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t hate you.”

His chuckle is dark, sending a shiver down my spine. “We don’t need love to fuck, princess.”

Now he sounds like Cassia. “We’re not fucking.”

Dare ignores me and opens the passenger door, stepping back and tipping his head toward it in a clear command.

“What, no please?”

“Get in the car.” He pauses and grimaces. “Please.”

Scoffing, I hobble forward to drop into the seat with all the grace of a newborn calf. The rush of pain that runs through my body has Eric’s angry face flashing through my mind, the way he pushed me up against the cabinets. The rough way he held my arm. The way he groped me.

Dare slams the door, startling a yelp out of me, and I glare at him as he rounds the car, his movements smooth and predatory. Not even Dare carrying my Saint Laurent bag can take away from the deadly vibes that shimmer around him.

After tossing the bag into the back, he slides into his seat. Dare is so...big. So larger-than-life. It’s not that he’s strong and clearly works out all the time, it’s something about him. His aura is magnetizing, and the more time I spend in close quarters with him, the more I fear I’ll lose myself in that dark allure, trying to pick him apart until I understand what makes him this way.

Dare turns on the car, cuts a knowing look in my direction, and pulls away from the curb. I don’t like that he thinks he knows what I’m thinking. I don’t like that he was right—my body was ready for him. That, even aftereverything that happened, I want him. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s me needing comfort. Whatever it is, I have to keep it in check.

He already takes up so much space, and if I’m not careful, he’ll consume my every thought.

Entering Dare’s house is different this time. For one thing, there’s a tall guy dressed in fatigues waiting for us. He’s bulky, ripped like a bodybuilder, and the crew cut of his dark hair screams military or some type of special forces. But the aura of venom surrounding him tells me his profession is a little more sinister than that of a simple veteran-turned-bodyguard.

This is the same guard from the night on the balcony and the one who’s almost always with Dare. Remy, I think is what my PI said his name was.

“Dare.” Remy scowls from me to his boss.

“Later,” is all Dare says. He carries me through the door Remy holds open, and while I’m relieved not to walk on my wounded feet, I loathe that it makes me seem fragile. Like I’m the princess he accuses me of being.

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