Page 19 of Jagger's Remorse

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"This is..." I trail off. "Sick? Twisted? Proof I'm exactly the monster you think I am?"

"Thorough."

I set the box down carefully. "You've been protecting me."

His laugh is bitter. "Protecting. Stalking. The line gets blurry."

"Who was the man who grabbed me outside the library three years ago? The one who ended up in the hospital with a shattered skull?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. "The drug dealer who tried to roofie me at that frat party?"

Silence. "The Norteño who figured out who my father was and came looking for payback?"

"He would have hurt you." The words come out rough. "They all would have hurt you."

"So you hurt them first."

"Yes."

"Why?" He grabs the box, shoves it back under the bed. "Your father asked me to protect you. Last wish of a dying man."

"And you always honor dying wishes?"

"I try."

"Bullshit." I push into his space, making him look at me. "You protected me because you couldn't let anyone else touch what you consider yours. Because in your twisted mind, I belong to you. Have since the moment you let me live."

His hand is in my hair before I finish. Yanking my head back. Exposing my throat. "Careful, little dragon. You're playing with fire."

"I've been burning for five years." I bare my teeth. "What's a little more heat?" He kisses me.

No—kisses is too gentle a word.

He devours me.

All that obsession, all that guilt, all that desire pouring out through his mouth into mine.

I taste whiskey and violence and five years of frustrated desire.

My body responds without permission.

Muscle memory from dreams where I killed him slowly takes a different turn.

His hands are rough, desperate.

Mine are calculating, cataloging.

The knife in his boot.

The gun at his hip.

The way his breath catches when I bite his lip.

All useful information for later.

He pushes me against the wall, and I let him.

Let him think he's in control.

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