Page 32 of Taken Online

“…Because I’m fuckable.”

He didn’t say it like it was a compliment. His voice was small. Defeated. Like it was something he’d been told a hundred times and finally believed.

I let go of his chin. “Why would you say that?”

“Because that’s what men think,” he snapped. “You think you can lock me in a room and treat me like your fuckable little fantasy.”

His voice shook. But instead of running, he started tearing back the covers. His hands went to the buttons of his shirt.

“Fine.”

I stood frozen. “Asher, what are you doing?”

He looked at me, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Don’t play dumb. I know what this is.”

He snapped his wrist out of my reach when I tried to stop him.

I grabbed him again, this time gently, cupping his face with both hands. He tensed, but didn’t pull away.

His chest heaved. He wasn’t crying yet, but he was close.

“Asher,” I whispered, “what’s wrong?”

He shoved me weakly. “You locked the door! What do you think is wrong? Do you think I’m new to this?”

“I just wanted privacy. To talk.”

He wasn’t listening. His eyes were wild, lips trembling.

Then something broke. He stopped resisting. His arms wrapped around my neck, legs curling around my waist as if on instinct. Like a reflex.

He buried his face in my shoulder and clung to me.

“Shh,” I whispered, holding him tighter. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He weighed nothing in my arms. A boy who had been hurt too many times. A boy who still didn’t know what safety looked like.

There was a knock at the door, but I ignored it. Whoever it was, they could wait.

Asher needed me.

And I wasn’t letting him go.

Chapter Nine

ASHER

Eversincethatnightat Blake’s house, things have felt... different.

Not the way they should’ve. Not like progress.

He treats me differently now. Softer. Like I’m made of paper, like I’ll fold in his hands if he looks at me wrong. I don’t know exactly what shifted, but I know I hate it. I hate the way his voice gets low and careful when he speaks to me. I hate the measured pauses in his questions, like he’s talking to someone half his age. I hate the pity behind his eyes. Like he’s watching a wounded animal instead of a man.

I’ve been doing everything I can to provoke him.

I flirt. I argue. I push boundaries I know I shouldn’t. I try to remind him that I’m still me. Still sharp. Still the same mouthy brat he met that first day in his office.

But no matter what I do, he never rises to it. He doesn’t snap. Doesn’t lose his temper. Doesn’t take the bait. And for some reason, that burns more than anything.

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