Page 4 of To Keep A Wolf
His eyes light up when he sees me, and he enters the room with all the intimacy of a couple in actual love.
Bastard.
“You look stunning,” he says.
“I look like a prize horse,” I say darkly.
He chuckles.
Chuckles.
Like this is all so amusing.
I glare at him, considering my options for weaponry. My bedroom is sparsely furnished, though, as if he knows the risks of giving me anything that could cause bodily harm. A hairbrush, plastic with blunt edges. Make-up. A wardrobe some girls would kill for. Me? I’ll kill for a lot of things. Freedom. Love. Morality. Survival. But not clothes.
The only other item left at my disposal is the clock on the nightstand. It’s a definite option.
“A stallion, maybe,” Jadick says, still going with my non-joke.
My glare turns acidic. “Don’t ever call me that again.”
“We’ll come up with something else,” he says, not bothered in the least by my animosity. “I do like the idea of pet names.”
“How about I call you ‘dictator’?” I ask with mock sweetness.
His amusement hardens. “Careful, Mac. Someone might hear you talk like that and question whether or not this is true love.”
I snort at that. It’s so ridiculous, it doesn’t even deserve an answer.
He walks up behind me, and our eyes meet in the full-length mirror. His fingers reach for my cheek, but I flinch away. At that, his eye twitches, his gaze narrowing as all traces of a smile vanish.
“How are you feeling today?”
Sick.
Stupid.
Heartbroken.
“Empty.”
“Good.” He beams as if that’s exactly what he’s hoped for. “I need you well and smiling for tonight’s festivities.”
“And if I throw up on you in the middle of dinner?”
“You’ll be punished accordingly.”
I don’t miss the glint in his eye, the sadistic bastard. He wants me to insult him. To give him a reason. He’s made it clear he likes it when I resist him, though how far he’ll take that little game is yet to be determined.
Something tells me he likes the chase. And that’s exactly why I refuse to run.
“But I think you’ll behave,” he says, his fingers trailing lightly over my shoulder and down my arm.
“You obviously don’t know me as well as you think,” I say, rigid against his light touch, “Besides, I thought you picked me for my rebellious spirit.”
His expression darkens. “Spirit, yes. Rebellion, no.”
His words trigger my rage, which I suspect is his purpose.
