Page 56 of Don't Say You're Sorry

Stepping closer to him, I check him from head to toe, searching for injuries. Physically, he’s okay as far as I can tell. He’s been gone for two days, and they were quite possibly the longest two days of my life. The only reason I know he wasn’t kidnapped in the middle of the night on Friday is because he texted Nate yesterday morning. Just two words.

I’m fine.

Well, I wasn’t fine. I know I have no right to be angry with him, and I’m the biggest hypocrite on the planet, but at least he knew where I was going when I left him. At least he knew I was safe. He left me without a fucking word. I was going to report him as a missing person today. Even after Nate told me about his bullshit text that did nothing to put me at ease. If anything, it just made me feel worse. Why text Nate and not me? Did he not realize I’d be worried sick about him?

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I demand. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

He doesn’t react to my outburst. He doesn’t even flinch. My nostrils flare, and I drop my gaze to his hands, only just realizing he’s playing with the tie I was wearing at our parents’ anniversary party.

My feet move closer to him without my permission, my dick hardening at the sight of its owner and the memories running through my head. “What are you doing with that?” I ask, mesmerized.

His lips twitch at the corners, and his eyes finally meet mine. He slowly looks down the length of my body before lifting his gaze to my face. “London,” he says, answering my first question.

I splutter. “London?”

He nods, running my tie through his long, expert fingers. “Your apartment was ugly as fuck. I hated it. Apart from the view. I liked that part.”

I knew he would. That’s the only part I liked about it as well. I used to sit in the living room and stare out the window, fantasizing about Easton and me riding up to the top of the London Eye. I used to picture him pulling me onto his lap and kissing me, claiming me and stealing me back, punishing me for what I did, and telling me he’s never letting me out of his sight again.

“Wait, my apartment…?” I shake my head in disbelief, trying to get my thoughts in order. “You went to see Axel?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“I brought him home. He’s waiting for us in the car. We’re going for Sunday dinner.”

I open my mouth, then close it again, once again going through the other night in my head. I’ve been over it a thousand times already over the last two days. He showed up at TheHideaway. Told Taylor or Tina I wasunavailable. Tricked me into dancing on the podium. Watched me with his nose flaring as if he wanted to throttle me and devour me at the same time. Continued watching me all night as I went back to work behind the bar. Stayed until closing time and waited outside for me for an hour.

He waited for me.

And then…

And then I don’t know.

He forgot my number? Is that why he did a complete one-eighty on me in a matter of seconds? Because he remembered how much he must have hated me after I left? Did he delete my number as if I never existed, as ifwenever existed, and try to forget me? That doesn’t sound like the Easton I know, but really, whatdoI know? I thought for sure he’d call me. I didn’t think he’d let me go that easy. But I was wrong.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

My head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and I swallow. “I don’t know what to think.”

He nods as if that makes sense. I wish he’d make it make sense for me.

“Easton, why did you go to London?”

“I told you. To bring Axel home.”

“Why?”

He cocks his head at me. “Don’t you know?”

Of course I do, but I want to hear him say it.

As if he can read my mind, he says, “Okay,” and stands, the towel slipping from my loose grip as he uses his body to guide my back to the wall. The tie he’s holding stretches across the front of my throat, and he gathers the ends in his hand above my head, his fist against the wall. A makeshift noose around my neck.

I can’t breathe. Not because he’s choking me with it, but because he’s sucked all the air out of my lungs. My arms hang limp at my sides, and I tip my head back, submitting to him like a good boy.

Hisgood boy.

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