Page 54 of His Pretty Little Duet

Though, ifIfail—I look down at my stomach—inconvenient things happen, but ifhefails, does the whole city fall apart? Do people die? What is at stake if he fails?

After the past ten minutes, our distance feels wrong. Reaching out, I grab his hand and place it on my thigh because I want him to touch me, want to know that the attachment we shared won't vanish and challenge my sense of reality. Is this the first time I've touched him? It feels like the first time, because like with any first, I'm worried I'm doing it wrong.

Too firm.

Too soft.

Too early.

I just want to know what it feels like to have someone strong and dependable put their hand on my thigh like they do in the movies when the relationship gets real, gets emotional, and now they are in comfortable silence in the car.

"You'll survive too," I whisper. "You won't fail."

Then he squeezes my thigh.

The rest of the drive is like that.

His hand on my thigh

My heart on the line.

Clay

I guideher towards the store, flanked and surrounded by my men as we filter through the people on the street muttering my name. Offering them a gracious smile, I touch her lower back as we pass through the sliding doors.

The service staff lock them behind us, sealing the entire section off to the public, leaving my little deer to wander around without interruption. Awe circles her. It's adorable.

In the corner of my eye, I see people line the glass, peeking in, but I ignore them. I'm used to this. District residents eager to ask me questions about the fire, bored or, being the prying lot that they are, wanting to know who the pretty girl is.

Mine.

"Woah," she mutters, opening her arms wide and spinning in a circle, the long strands of her white-blonde hair skirting out as she takes in her surroundings. I look at the time on my cell. Today is an inconvenience.

Yet, I wanted to give her something.

After last night, I needed to.

Aurora would have had hundreds of pieces of clothing sent to her room to choose from had I agreed to it, but I didn't, and I'm still not sure why. An entire day wasted—shopping.

Lifting my hand, I rub my jaw. My cock twitches as I smell the lingering scent of her pussy on my fingers, as I remember her damp lips, the cries that fell helplessly from her throat, the way she said, 'You won't fail,' and I put my phone back into my pocket.

I stalk her with my eyes, watching the prettiest thing I have ever seen—a sight that makes my chest ache, my mind torrid—the thing I dare not throw down and claim despite my every muscle convulsing to do so, stroll nervously around, stopping to touch the fabric on a mannequin.

I'm a possessive man and fucking her will be the start and end of something. My urges have already undermined my controlled lifestyle, the decisions I've made regarding her have shown to be uncharacteristic...

What is it about her?

I see a lot of myself in her, but where I have spent every day attempting to step from Jimmy Storm's shadow, she has spent every day clutching at life, merely trying to exist. We are both the perfect product of our institutionalised circumstances.

Moving forward, she will be my responsibility, and after, when we gut her father, she'll still be mine to watch over—however, from afar.

It is better that way.

Could I keep her after it is all done? She will hate me. Would that stop me? I don't have the answers to those questions. Had this vendetta not been for my brother, but my own, I may lay it to rest forher... Such a self-indulged and pathetic consideration. As I know, I won't choose a soul over them again...

But I won't allow her to merely survive. I doubt she'll know what to do with herself...

Trysomething, perhaps.

---