Page 20 of Call You Mine

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, my dear. I’m sure you’d agree, given you’ve gone to certain lengths in your past.” Panic creeps into me at the mere suspicion she might know something about my time in New York. “There is one thing that may delay what I’m asking of you—your inheritance.”

“What?” I cry out in disbelief. Yet my mother has the audacity to stare back at me like what she's just demanded is nothing more than a simple favor, nothing out of the fucking ordinary.

“Your trust. I know you're a month away from claiming your grandfather's inheritance. Hand it over and we’ll call it even.”

“No,” I shout back, stepping away from her, but she quickly reaches for me, pulling me in for what would look to be a hug to anyone watching us.

Her fingers dog into my upper arms and she holds me forcefully against her. “Then go get your little cunt waxed, baby girl, mommy needs her goddamn money.”

My palm aches, and if I didn’t think slapping her across her much deserving Botox-infused face would make Damon rush over to us, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

I can’t just talk my way out of this. What Willa Servite wants, she always gets, and I know she’ll never back off unless I give her what she wants. I need a good enough lie, a reason I can’t be part of her con. And that’s when stupidity strikes me. Such an outrageous idea it might be what it takes to get her to back away. “Even if I wanted to help you, which I don’t, I can’t.”

She scoffs, releasing me only to glare murderously at me. “Why?”

“Because,” I murmur, looking to our right where he stands, his eyes glued to mine. “I already have a boyfriend, and he can get us what you need as long as you promise me you’ll disappear. For good.”

Chapter Five

DAMON

What the fuck am I doing here, with her?

That’s the motherfucking question of the year. If I’ve learned anything in my time knowing her, it’s that Wynter Servite is fucking dangerous, and she might just be the death of me if I’m not careful.

The moment I saw her walking down the stairs last night freshly showered and wearing nothing but one of my t-shirts, the need to claim her burned through me in a way I never imagined it could. Pure, carnal heat flooded my veins, seared my flesh, and numbed my entire body as my eyes traveled over her beautiful lean legs, aching to see what was hiding beneath the shirt.

It was as if I’d been possessed and was no longer in control of my actions, stupidly pulling the shirt off of her like some lunatic. The fire lit by her nearly naked body ran through me like my blood was gasoline. It was a feral feeling I hadn’t ever experienced. Combine it with the terrified look in her eyes whenI cleaned the wounds scattered along her skin, and it was slowly killing me.

I wanted to kill the motherfucker who dared to put his hands on her.

I’ve always known Wynter’s been hiding something from me. Her bullshit excuse of leaving across the country to get away from her old life never once fooled me, but I didn’t question it. I had no right to. We were barely friends, two people who drunkenly fucked each other one night and for some fucked up reason couldn’t keep their distance. I had no right to pry, and she owed me nothing, yet the moment I saw her in danger, hurt and scared shitless, something in me snapped.

Suddenly, I no longer wanted to steer clear of the sensual temptress. I wanted to make her mine. Again.

Last night as she sat there before me vulnerable for the first time since I’ve known her, I couldn’t stand the thought of not touching her silky, smooth skin, running my rough fingertips over every cut, every bruise until I healed her. The dormant dragon living deep within me was ready to pounce on anyone who threatened to hurt her.

I’d never felt so possessive, which is exactly why I knew I had to do whatever it took to fight the urge to make her mine.

Because the moment my tongue tasted her once again, the moment I touched her arousal, I almost lost every ounce of self-control. I wanted to lose myself in her, but most of all, I wanted her to lose herself with me.

A server passes by me, heading over to the cocktail area we’ve walked over to after taking group photos with the bride and groom. I’m pretty sure I was scowling in every damn one, not able to focus on anything but Wynter.

I reach out and take a glass from his tray, my gaze still zeroed in toward the fountain where Wynter stands in a heated conversation with her mother. I’m about to head over to them,noticing the distraught look on Wynter's face, when I feel someone come up behind me.

“Dragon,” Scarlett says, placing her small hand on my shoulder. My death grip on the glass of bourbon in my hand tightens, but I keep my gaze focused on Wynter and the woman who looks more like her older sister than her mother. Their silvery-blond hair is the same length, eyes both icy and blue, but where Wynter is tall and slim, the perfectly toned model-like physique, her mother has clearly gotten work done. No one looks like that, no matter how many hours a day they spend at the gym.

I take longer than planned to acknowledge Scar, not able to drag my gaze away from Wyn and how fucking incredible she looks in the skintight black dress she’s wearing, along with that same diamond choker she wore the night I fucked her, perfectly wrapped around her neck hiding the bruises caused by the asshole’s fingers.

She refused to tell me anything about what happened to her, but I swear to God when I find him, whoever the fuck he is, I’m going to fucking kill him.

“Fuck,” I groan, downing the bourbon in one swift gulp, drowning the rage I feel from not knowing what it is the fucker did to her.

Was it an ambush? Was she kidnapped and hurt? Was he a lover who took their role play too far, or a scorned ex-who couldn’t accept he’d lost her?

Was she forced?

Guilt crashes into me in violent waves at the thought of someone forcing themselves on her. And there I was last night fucking touching her in a way I had no business touching her, without even asking her if I could as I cleaned her open wounds.

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