Page 49 of Ryker

“Just give me a minute.” She keeps her face hidden behind several thousand dollars’ worth of couture.

I can’t bear the thought of her huddled in the corner of her closet like this, crying, and me useless to fix it. God, I don’t even want to know why I want to fix it. She’s not my wife. She’s not my lover. She’s the club’s Butterfly and nothing more. Still, I can’t stand seeing her like this.

“Take all the time you need.” I lick my lips and add, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tara lets out a slow breath and wipes her cheeks. “I’m sorry I left the club.”

“Don’t be.” Fuck, how did we get to this? “Sorry I held your clothing hostage.” If she’d had them earlier, a lot of humility and vulnerability could have been avoided. “I was a dick to keep them from you.”

“Yeah, you were.”

Tara eventually takes my hand and I lift her to her feet. She’s no longer in the robe from the club, but what she has on isn’t much better. Her dress hits just above her knees and the sheer sleeves hit mid-forearm. There’s a belt cinched around her waist, showing off the flare of her hips.

She still hasn’t let go of my hand. I’ve yet to stop staring at her perfect-for-me body.

Before I know it, I draw in closer until our bodies are flush against each other. Her eyes are a brilliant shade of blue that has me drowning. I wet my lips. Lean in.

Then catch myself.

Shit. Nope. Time to step back and take a breather.

Only when I do, she looks like I’ve just kicked her in the crotch. “Sorry,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I should give you space. You just had a scare, and the last thing you need is someone else in your face.”

Cop out.

“It’s fine.” Tara scoops her hair up to put in a low ponytail. That’s when I get a good look at her throat.

A clear red handprint marks the front of her neck where the skin’s already bruising.

My anger flares to life all over again.

Instead of insisting she tell me who that was, I turn on my heels and head to the kitchen for ice. There’s only a bag of frozen strawberries and a bottle of vodka in her freezer. I pour her a shot in case she needs it and smash the frozen bag of fruit on the counter so it’s more pliable. Heading back to her, I stop when I see she’s now at her desk, rummaging through papers.

“Lay down,” I say, handing over the frozen berries. “Work can wait.”

“No, it can’t.” She rifles through more of her folders.

I assume she’s like me and dumps her energy into work instead of finding a better outlet for it.

“Who was that guy, Tara?”

“Just another asshole who thinks he owns the world.”

He doesn’t own Tara. I do. That motherfucker will pay for what he’s done to my girl. But that look she’s giving me is pleading for me to drop it, so I will for now. I’ve got plenty of time to wear her down about it later.

“Look…” She says after a heavy sigh. “I know the rules of the club state I can’t have outside contact while I’m the Butterfly. But that’s not going to work for me. I have a business to run and shit to do.”

“The rules clearly state—”

“That the Butterfly and her Dom or Doms will be locked in for a month together. Yes, I’m aware.” She tosses the bag of berries onto the desk. “But you’ve already left me three times to run your club. You’d be a hypocrite to make me follow the rules you, yourself, are breaking.”

Where is this coming from? Five minutes ago, she was crying in the corner of her closet. Now suddenly, she’s ready to pick a fight and get back to business? “If you don’t like it, you can always relinquish the title and honor, Tara.”

“Honor?” She stands up, seething. “It’s supposed to be an honor to be treated like I’m just a chore? I’m not something on your to do list.”

Ahh, I get it. She doesn’t swing punches like I do, but she still knows how to pick a fight so she can unleash her anger. “That’s not at all what I—”

“Oh, it is, Sir.” She gets all in my personal space. “You act like you can just make me come until I crash, and that should be good enough. You keep me locked and naked like a prisoner.”

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