Page 17 of Mortify

Just hard enough to sting, to remind me of my place, but not hard enough to mark.

He's gotten very good at walking that line.

"Don't lie to me," he says conversationally, as if he didn't just hit me.

As if this is normal. "You've been avoiding me. Taking hours to respond to texts. Making excuses. Do you think I'm stupid, Everly?"

"No," I whisper.

"No, what?"

"No, you're not stupid."

"That's right. I'm not." He grips my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I know everything you do. Everyone you talk to. Every lie you tell. Don't forget that."

The threat is clear.

He's watching, always watching.

Through whatever network of connections he's built, whatever hold he has on people.

The Patriot connection Regnor mentioned at Thanksgiving haunts me.

How deep do Dylan's tentacles reach?

"I'm here now," I manage.

"Yes, you are." His thumb brushes over where he slapped me, a mockery of tenderness. "Because you know what happens if you're not. Don't you?"

My throat tightens. "Bjorn gets hurt."

"Very good." He releases me, moving to his bar. "You can be taught. Drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm not feeling?—"

"I said, drink." He pours two glasses of wine, pressing one into my hand. "You'll relax. You're always so tense around me. It's insulting."

I take the glass, pretending to sip.

The smell alone makes my stomach roil.

If I am pregnant, alcohol is the last thing I should have, but refusing him outright is dangerous.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the white leather couch.

I perch on the edge, careful not to spill the wine.

He settles beside me, too close, his thigh pressing against mine.

I fight the urge to shift away.

"We need to discuss your future," he says, swirling his wine. "This rebellious phase has gone on long enough."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. That's why you need me to think for you." He takes a long sip. "You're going to quit that pathetic job. This week."

"What?" The word escapes before I can stop it.

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