Page 24 of Ruthless God

“I was watching you, and you seemed like you’re concentrating.”

I fold the piece of paper and place it into my pocket. “Sketching nonsense.”

The waitress refills my cup with Coke, then she asks June if he wants anything and he tells her no.

He gives me a quizzical look. “What’s your relationship with Snow?”

I don’t want to speak about my relationship with Snow. I don’t want to speak about how he plays into my fantasies and how I want to be touched by him, or that we’re on bad terms.

“I don’t have a relationship with him,” I lie.

He leans back into the booth. “When we were at the party, he told me I needed to stay away from you and that you’re his new toy.”

My cheeks burn. “Snow can be unhinged.”

He crinkles his nose and runs his fingers through his hair. “So, you’re not the one he’s marrying?”

“I am. Sadly, I’m marrying the devil.”

“Shit. I wanted to shoot my shot.”

Even if I wasn’t supposed to marry Snow, I wouldn’t date June; he’s not my type.

“I’m sorry.”

“I figured you were. The way he looks at you. And the picture he posted on Instagram.”

I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head to the side. “What picture?”

“The picture he posted three hours ago. Did you not see? He tagged you in it.”

He yanks out his phone from his pocket, taps on the screen, and shoves it in my hand. It’s a sketch of me half naked and sitting on his lap. Snow is wearing a suit and I have a collar around my neck. That’s the most tame picture I drew of him. In the caption is the word,Mine. This is my personal stuff that no one is supposed to see. He’s doing this because I didn’t go to his stupid orgy party.

I scroll through his comments, and someone asks if I am going to be his wife. The bastard has the nerve to comment “Maybe.” With heart emojis.

“The picture is hot as fuck,” June murmurs.

This son of a bitch is working my last nerve.

I grab my phone from my purse and type a message to Snow.

Me: Take down the fucking picture.

Snow: No.

Me: It’s degrading.

Snow: It’s art.

Me: When I bash your skull in, would that be considered art?

Snow: My dick is hard. I love it when you talk dirty to me.

Me: *middle finger emoji*

Snow: Let’s make something clear, Blue. When I tell you to do something, you do it. If I tell you to jump, you say how high. You’re not getting the picture that I own you, and there isn’t anything you can do about it.

Without acknowledging June, I get up from the table, strap my purse over my shoulder, and leave the restaurant.

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