Page 172 of Unorthodox
I still don’t look at him.
“If you pretend you like this,” he nudges the gun against my side, “I’ll make it good for you again. It’ll only hurt a little, because it has to for me, but I’ll be gentle.”
My heart thuds dully in my chest, mental fatigue and maybe the alcohol making my head spin. I know Max will be good to his word, which means he’ll make sure itdoeshurt if I don’t pretend to want it. To want him.
“Okay,” I say softly, still not looking at him, thinking of the gun in his hand. Of what he’s going to do with it.
I hold my breath.
Say a silent prayer.
Then he lays the gun down on the floor. Grabs my chin. Forces me to face him. “You need to look at the devil when you’re making a deal with him.”
I smile at him, my eyes locked on his. For a moment, we just stare at each other, his hand on my face. I marvel at how much I hate him, and how much my heart breaks for the fact that he’s a man who is impossible to love.
I wonder if he hates himself, too. I think about him holding that gun to his head, finger on the trigger. I wonder how many times he’s thought about killing himself.
I wonder when I’ll ever stop wondering about stupid things. When my heart will simply disappear, like his has. And when I reach for his stupid fucking gun, aim it at him, and pull the trigger before he can react, I wonder if it just did.
“You fucking bitch.”His hand is over his upper arm, just below his shirt, blood pooling beneath his fingers, soaking his skin.
I scramble backward on the floor, out from under him, holding the gun with both hands, aiming it at him as I jump to my feet, take a step back from him.
My ears are ringing, my arms shaking, but I don’t look away from him.
He’s still propped on his side, his face contorted in pain, those blue-grey eyes staring daggers at me.
“I’m leaving you, Max,” I tell him quietly, backing up toward the door, trying not to panic. Trying to remember to breathe.
There’s so much fucking blood.
He takes a shallow breath, his chest rising and falling slowly, muscles flexing. There’s a vein in his neck that’s throbbing against his skin.
“I’m leaving you, and I’m never coming back. I’m going to fucking put you in prison for the rest of your life.” I almost laugh with those words, because I’m free.
I’m fucking free.
I’m right at the door, gun still pointed in his direction.
“You’re going to rot in a cell.” I reach behind me, unlock the door, not taking my eyes off of him as blood pools on the dark floor beneath him. “You’re going to rot, and no one is going to cry for you, Max. Because no one gives a fuck about you.”
His pale face turns a sickly shade of green, and I feel that part of me that cares for him trying to betray my mind. Poison my resolve.
I won’t let it.
He deserves this.
I pull open the door.
If he bleeds out in this horrible house, he deserves that, too.
“Addison,” he says, his voice a strangled groan.
I smile at him as I step back into the hallway. “Yes,love?”
“Don’t do this.” He sits up, trying to push himself off of the floor.
I pull the trigger again, wincing as the shot rings out. It doesn’t hit him, and instead imbeds itself into the wall behind him, but he doesn’t move again.
