Page 174 of Endgame
With a shrug, she tells me, “Let’s go.”
She’s smiling, her grin wide and borderline unhinged. An identical grin to the ones I gave the mall security guards every time I got caught.
It has to be the reason I can’t bring myself to hate her fully like Everett seems to.
And while I don’t hate her, she’ll never be my friend. I don’t trust her one fucking bit.
“Sure.” I match her expression, hoping to fool her into believing we’re on the same team. “Everett, can I get you anything?”
His eyes widen in shock. His lips press into a thin line.
Oh God. I’ve offended the alpha male. The provider. The protector.
I won’t laugh. I won’t tell him he’s so fucking adorable.
Fuck, I think I love him.
“Gotcha.” One last squeeze of his hand, and I slide out of his grip. “I’ll be back soon, then.”
“I don’t want you leaving my sight,” he repeats, the threat in his voice laced with subtle yearning.
“I won’t.”
Ivy links her arm through mine and carries me toward the bar.
“So.” She leads me around the group of people, not giving any of them a chance to talk to me. “How’s married life? Are you happy?”
Strange. She and I have only ever said hello to one another, and yet here she is, acting like she’s my best friend.
I don’t let the suspicions get to me. That’s what I wanted, after all. Her trust.
“It’s been great,” I say, my smile faltering. I’m closer to my parents now than to Everett. This unwanted proximity evokes old fears.
I look over my shoulder to find my husband’s full attention on me. Shielding me from afar.
One dip of his chin, and safety wraps around me like a well-worn blanket.
Then Stafford continues talking to him about something, and Everett turns to him.
“I can tell.” While I’ve been searching for my human lifeboat, Ivy has unlinked our arms and ordered us two glasses of red wine. She slides mine into my hand, perching her elbow on the bar. “The kinkier, the better. Right?”
The skin beneath my collar bursts into flames. On its own, my hand rises to cover it from her leering eyes.
Too fast, my embarrassment turns into possessiveness. Into rage.
I’m not a prude, but she has no right to imagine my husband fucking me. I’m the only one who’s allowed to do that.
Only me.
“Mine,” I growl at her.
“Easy there, tiger.” She laughs, taking a sip of her wine. She dabs a paper napkin over her wet lips, adding, “Let’s start over. I wasn’t referring to the collar. I’m not trying to get Everett to collar me either.”
The idea alone evokes righteous fury within me.
I take a menacing step closer to her. “You can try. See how you like having your throat slit.”
The slightest suggestion that he could be stolen from me is unacceptable.
