Page 31 of Dare To Live

“Don’t fucking care. I like it to be quiet.”

She glares at me. I fold my arms and glare right back at her.

“How soon after we broke up did you fuck another man?”

“What—”

“A week? A month? Longer?” I advance toward her.

“None of your business.”

“When you said you needed space, a break to figure shit out, did you really mean you wanted to fuck someone else?”

She shakes her head, lips twisting in disgust. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Did you scream their name when you came? Did they tattoo your presence onto their body?”

The sharp crack as her palm hits my cheek echoes around the room. It takes a second for the pain to radiate across my face, but I’m already in motion. My hand shoots out and wraps around her throat, and I back her against the wall. I’m not holding her tight. She can breathe well enough, but her fingers claw at my wrists, pull at my fingers, to no avail.

I lower my head until our mouths are close together. “Just one flex, one squeeze, that’s all it would take.”

“Do you want to kill me, Eli?” To her credit, her voice is level, but I can see the fear in her eyes. The uncertainty of what I might be capable of. The realization that she no longer knows me.

“I want to do a lot of things, Princess.” I tighten my grip, briefly cutting off her air flow, then release her and twist away.

Something bounces off the back of my head and I turn back to face her. Another cushion is on the floor near my feet.

“What the fuck is it with you throwing cushions at me?” I snap.

“Be glad we’re not in the kitchen.”

I wave a hand toward the door. “Go nuts. You’ve stabbed me in the back enough times. Once more won’t make any difference.”

“That’s not fair, Eli.”

“Nor were you.”

She raises her hand to hit me again, but this time I grab her wrist and shake my head.

“Enough. I don’t know what kind of men you’ve been dating, but this one doesn’t get off on being hit every time he says something you don’t like.”

“If I hit you every time you said something I didn’t like, you’d be dead.”

“Maybe I should just stop talking to you then.”

“Maybe you should.”

Even I can hear how childish we both sound. I push past her and walk into the kitchen. If I’m going to get through this, I need a fucking drink. Throwing open cabinet doors, I find a bottle of bourbon, grab a glass, and fill it to the brim.

“Is this what you do out here? Drink before lunch?”

I whirl around to find her in the doorway. Holding her gaze, I lift the glass to my lips and drain it.

“Only when I have unwanted house guests.” I reach behind me for the bottle and refill my glass.

“Guess that explains why you looked like a homeless person when I arrived.”

I lift the glass to her in a mock salute. “You’ve got me all figured out, Princess.”

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