Page 122 of Poison Aches

The face that has starred in all the vital and heartbreaking moments of my life.

The eyes that shock my system back to life.

The chiseled jaw that makes me want to write my name on it to claim it.

And those lips… the lips other girls have kissed but me.

“You bled too,” I point out, refusing to be the only one pathetic here.

“Yes. I’ll never allow you to bleed alone.”

I gasp, then blink, staring at the man who is far from the boy I met but yet, he’s just as cold if not more so.

“What the hell are you planning to make me do, Emmett?”

“Well, nothing that would surprise you,” he says as his thumb strokes from my cheek to my jaw. “You are going to tip the scales for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I cry.

After Emmett made it clear that there will never be anything between us and that he’ll never love me, I was sure he’d ignore me once again. But this…him going out of his way to threaten me, blackmail me… there’s a reason behind it. One he won’t reveal immediately.

“Because imagine my surprise when I discovered that you just so happen to be the perfect candidate.”

“For what?”

“For screwing the idiots who think they’ve outsmarted me.”

An unexpected chill goes down my spine.

Emmett is calm.

Not the type of calm that is forced or rehearsed but the type of calm that is commanded.

In every space he takes—sans the ones occupied by our friends—people seem to bow down to that calm. He never allows the reverse to happen. But now, hearing the lethal tone he just used… seems things aren’t going his way.

“Well, would you look at that,” I start, smiling bitterly.

“What?” he demands, not happy at all.

“You’re losing.”

He stares at me, the greens of his eyes suddenly darkening until they are almost black.

“I assure you, Angel, I lost long before I ever saw you about to kill yourself.”

Before I can reply, the flight attendant is back with a trolley carrying a bucket of chilling champagne, a new crystal champagne flute, and more strawberries.

She pours the champagne, then tops up my glass that Emmett was drinking from and passes it back to him.

“Should you be drinking that?” I ask, vaguely hearing my own voice as if it’s far away or like I’m underwater.

“You don’t drink either, but here we are.”

He passes me the new flute and keeps mine with my lip gloss on the rim.

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