Page 17 of The Cheerleader

“I do,” she insists. “I know what I’m asking. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” The words catch in my throat. “Do you understand what’s at stake here, Juliet? This ... it’s not just some phase. It’s a bond. A mate bond. That means something. It means everything. If we fulfill this mating, if I let you mark me, I can’t walk away from it. But neither can you.”

She pauses, letting the weight of my words sink in. But she doesn’t pull away from me like I expected. Instead, she takes a deep breath, eyes burning with resolve.

“I want this. I want you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I mutter again, standing and backing away from her. “This isn’t what you think it is. It’s not some fairy tale.” I put my cock back in my pants and walk to the far side of the room.

“Then tell me what it is, Abel,” she demands, her voice growing louder, more desperate. “Tell me exactly what this is. Because all I see is us.”

I close my eyes, running my hand through my hair again. I’m losing control. I can feel the bond pulling me to her, making it impossible to think clearly. But I can’t let it go on. I can’t let myself fall this hard, this fast.

“I can’t let you do this,” I say, my voice breaking, my chest tight with a mixture of desire and fear. “I can’t let you ruin your life by being with someone like me.”

“You don’t get to tell me how to live my life,” she says for what feels like the hundredth time, her eyes fierce. “And you don’t get to decide for me that I don’t want you. Because I do. I want you.”

I look at her, and for a second, I almost cave. All we are doing here is going in fucking circles. She simply won’t fucking listen.

But I pull back again, the pain in my chest too sharp to ignore. “I’m not the man you need, Juliet. You’re too young. You deserve better.”

She looks up at me, eyes filled with something both tender and defiant. “I don’t want better. I want you.”

I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know what to say anymore. All I know is that the longer I stand here, the harder it is to walk away. And I’m starting to wonder if I even want to.

Chapter Twelve

Juliet

Two Days Later

I didn’t expect things to get easier. I didn’t expect him to suddenly change his mind and accept this bond like some love story I’ve read about in a book. But this—the quiet silence between us—is unbearable.

Abel’s been avoiding me for two fucking days. Not in a way that’s obvious, but in subtle, painful little gestures. His body language, the way he doesn’t make eye contact when I walk by, the way he retreats into his office at the club or works on the business late into the night. It hurts.

Every day, the bond pulls at me, the ache growing deeper with every passing moment. My body is attuned to him now. Every part of me craves him, but there’s no release. There’s only this gnawing hunger, an emptiness I can’t escape.

I’ve tried talking to him, tried to explain, tried to make him understand I’m not some fragile little girl who needs protecting. But every time I get close, he shuts down. He clams up. The more I push, the further he pulls away. And I can’t decide if it’s because he’s afraid of hurting me or because he’s terrified of what this bond means for him.

Not that he is letting me live my life either. He won’t let me dance, instead relegating me to the bar. I’m not allowed to walk anywhere, he insists on driving me. And even though he won’t spend the night with me, I know he is sitting outside my apartment in his car. He is driving us both crazy. But I’m not backing down. I can’t.

After my shift, I wait until everyone leaves before making my way through the club, trying to push the tension out of my body, trying to ignore the pulse in my veins that seems to scream out for him. But it’s hard to escape the hunger. The need. It’s always there.

I make my way through the back hall, passing by the dressing rooms and the storage closet. I don’t hesitate or stop to think about what I am doing. I know what I’m looking for.

Abel’s office door is slightly ajar. The low hum of his voice drifts out, but I can’t tell if he’s talking to someone or just on the phone. The door creaks when I push it open, and I step inside.

He’s sitting at his desk, staring at the papers in front of him, his massive shoulders hunched over as if the weight of the world is on him. His shirt is undone at the top and his sleeves are rolled up, his tattoos glistening in the dim light. I notice that his jaw is clenched tightly, the tension running through him almost palpable.

For a moment, I just watch him. And my heart breaks.

He’s fighting this. He’s fighting me. He’s fighting us.

I hate that.

Closing and locking the door behind me, I walk closer, and his eyes flick up to meet mine as he hangs up the phone. There’s nothing but wariness in his gaze. No warmth. No softness. Just the cold distance he’s putting between us.

“Abel,” I say quietly, my voice low but determined. “We need to talk.”

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