Page 65 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Obey you?” My scoff is laced with bitterness and hurt as I shake my head. "Maybe because I am not a damndog.”
“No?” His jaw ticks as he aggressively flicks the stem of the necklace. “Then why the fuck are you wearing a collar?”
I blink. “What?”
Damon runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Jesus, Emery, do you not see what’s happening? He’s claiming you, and you, you’re fucking allowing it.”
I swallow, the weight of the diamonds almost unbearable under his pained gaze. “It’s just a necklace.”
“Maybe to you,” Damon says. “But to him, it’s an opening, an invitation. One that you’ve accepted.” He pauses, face paling. “Are you…interestedin him?”
I could lie. I could tell him that Quinton meansnothing. I could say that he has nothing to worry about. But that would be a lie.
“He intrigues me,” I answer honestly. “Quin… He intrigues me.”
Damon winces as if I slapped him across the face. “And I do not?”
I can see two paths before me, each with a distinct promise. The first path burns with passion and desire. It’s a path that I have already walked. Will continue to walk. It sizzles with an intense heat that both consumes and strengthens me, like a sword forged in the scorching pits of hell. It’s chaotic and messy and oozing with toxic waste, and yet, I am powerless to resist its pull.
The second path remains untouched and untapped. But welcoming. So fucking welcoming. It’s green and lush and glowing with intellectual ease. There’s no intensity, no pain, no danger that I can sense, but there is depth. A depth that calls to me like an angel’s whisper, and I’m so fucking tempted to take a step forward and explore.
The path of thunder shakes my core, the lightning illuminating the darkest corners of my mind.
But it cannot be dark forever.
“Can I not find two men intriguing?” I ask, placing a hand on his vibrating chest, the earth beneath his feet quaking at my response. I tilt my head, giving him a soft, manipulative smile. “Intrigue is just that, Damon. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“Overreacting? Given what you just said, I think my reaction is exactly what it should be,” Damon grunts,wrapping his hand around my wrist. His grip is firm, solid, unflinching. It makes me feel trapped, like a bird in a cage. I can’t handle any more cages. “Do you want to fuck him, Emery? Is that what you want?”
“Let go of me,” I say, and he drops his hand immediately. “You need help, Damon.” I rub my wrist, shaking my head at the sad man standing before me. “Professional help.”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, ashamed and small. “I?—”
“Are you, though?” I ask. “I get that you and Quin have problems, but I’m not an idiot and neither are you. Whatever elicited this reaction is something bigger than just a necklace.” I sigh. “You told the reporter earlier that you spent the last two years grieving. Well, grief has stages, Damon. And I-I don’t think you’ve ever left the anger behind. Because this,” I motion around him, “this is some unresolved grief, in some way or another.”
“I—”
“I’m done talking to you,” I say, picking up the train of my dress. “Figure your shit out, Damon, because I have no desire to carry your baggage. Either unpack it or Iwillpack up and leave. I’m going to check on Quin.” I flash him a stern look. “Donotfollow me.”
As I make my way toward Quinton, a wave of guilt crashes over me. It feels like I am abandoning a wounded child, one who is unable to articulate their feelings. But he’s not a child. He’s an adult, a grown-ass man who throws tantrums when he doesn’t get what he wants.
Perhaps it’s a result of his upbringing, or maybe hisinflated ego is to blame. Or, the explanation that haunts me with unshakeable guilt, is that he fears losing me to the same sea that swept away all those he dared to care about before.
My sympathies are with him, they really are, but I am not a solution to his problems. I am not a remedy, a cure, a magical concoction that heals all his wounds, his scars, his pain.
I’m also not a distraction. And that is what it feels like sometimes. That he uses me to forget. I’m a hypocrite, I know. I use him too. But soaking in pleasure is always so much more attractive than soaking in pain.
But his pain fuels mine and mine fuels his. There’s only so much agony a human body can take.
“You need ice,” I say to Quinton. He looks up at me, the cloth napkin in his hand dotted with blood. I glance down at his ruined white tuxedo. “And that’s going to stain.”
“You’re still here,” Quinton muses, standing up. He gives me a crooked smile. “I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“No, you’re an idiot.” My gaze darts to the service doors that lead into the back kitchen. “This way. Let’s go.” I look back over my shoulder at Quin and lift an impatient brow. “Do you want a bruise?”
Quin chuckles, following me. “I wouldn’t mind a bruise. I feel like it would make me look rather dashing, wouldn’t it, darling?”
“Don’tdarlingme,” I state, slipping past the waitstaff as we sneak through the swinging doors. I ignore the puzzled looks from the cooks as I zero in on an icemachine. Grabbing a fresh cloth napkin from a nearby tray, I flip open the lid and stuff the cloth with ice cubes. “Here. Put it on your nose.”
