Page 19 of Unorthodox
“Addison.”There’s a deadly warning in my name, in that tone, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop the heaving sobs that steal my breath before it all comes out in a rush, my lips trembling, my chest rising and falling as I try to gulp in air but there isn’t enough and—
Hands come around my wrists, yanking my arms from my head. Then those same strong hands move to my throat.
Over my collar.
It’s unbuckled, tossed to the floor with a clatter, but hands quickly come back around my throat.
I take a deep breath. Register that Max is on his knees in front of me, his eyes boring into mine as he squeezes me, his fingers overlapping around my neck.
I can’t breathe.
Panic replaces my fear, and I press back against the wall, but of course, I don’t get anywhere.
“Addison.” Max’s voice is calm, but his fingers squeeze me tighter.
Spots pop in front of my eyes.
“Calm down.”
My hands go to his forearms, digging into his skin, but Max doesn’t let go.
He just fucking… he just fucking killed someone.
My head spins, my brain sluggish from the shock and Max’s hands around my throat. I scratch harder, try to pry him off, but he exerts no effort as he keeps choking me.
“Are you going to be quiet?” he asks when my panic reaches a crescendo. My fingers feel numb and I can’t fight him anymore.
I can’t think. Can’t see. Can’t move. I’m completely at his mercy.
“Are you going to be good, Addison?”
I nod my head with the last ounce of strength I have left in my body, white spots clouding my vision from the lack of oxygen in my brain.
He lets go of me.
I gulp in air, eyes flying open, throat sore.
Max has blood all over his face. His face, his suit jacket, his shirt, and his hands…
There must be blood on my throat, too.
I rub at it, panicking again, but he moves faster than my fear. He grabs my knees, pulls them apart. My breath catches in my throat as he takes my wrists in one hand, holding them by my side. He nudges closer, his body forcing its way between my knees, which are still up to my chest.
He reaches for something on his hip and when I see the gun he just used to shoot Ben, my heart hammers so hard, my entire body shakes with my pulse.
He holds up the gun, held between the palm of his hand and his thumb, like criminals do when they’re lowering them slowly for cops.
“Look at me,” he commands me.
I can’t take my eyes off of the gun.
“Look at me, love, or this is going to hurt.”
I tear my eyes away from the weapon, hold his gaze.
“Good girl.” His torso is against my knee, and he’s positioned himself so I can’t close my legs. I don’t know what to do, what to say, but when he lowers the gun, I start to shake again.
“Don’t look away from me,” he says softly, then he caresses my knee with the grip of his gun.
