Page 49 of Call You Mine

“Get out of the car, Wynter, and walk your sweet little ass inside the house. Lock your door tonight, Princess,” I murmurhuskily into the crook of her neck, gliding my jaw back and forth over the soft pulse point that’s rhythmically pulsating with every breath she takes. “Because after the shit you pulled, trying and failing to make me jealous and trying to manipulate me into taking what you're so desperately begging for, I’m not responsible for what I do to punish you.”

Slowly pulling back, I catch her biting her lip, her eyes closed while her mind is at war with what it is she wants from me. She reaches for me, her fingers tightly gripping the silver chain around my neck. It’s obvious she wants me, craves my touch, my mouth, my cock, but at what cost? Is the humiliation of another one of my rejections enough, or is it just another obstacle she’s willing to knock down to win this dangerous little game we’ve played, but refuse to lose?

“You’re such a fucking asshole Damon,” she scoffs, releasing me and reaching for the door handle only to find it’s still locked. Nice one idiot, telling her to get out yet refusing to let her. Story of my fucking life with Wynter Servite. Demanding one thing yet meaning another completely different one.

Leaning back into my seat I say, “Yeah, and yet you still want me. What does that say about you, Princess?” But I don’t expect her to respond. She looks defeated. The blue in her eyes is not as bright as it was the last time I was this close to her. Her smile is gone and in its place a stoic expression that mirrors the frustration inside me.

Wynter takes a deep breath before softly whispering, her voice so solemn it nearly breaks me. “That I’m more fucked in the head than I imaged possible, though that’s no surprise after the shit I’ve been through.”

A ghost of a smile hits her lips, a haunted and almost empty look in her eyes makes my chest constrict, aching to figure out what the fuck has gotten her this way. It couldn’t just be what happened with her family. She doesn’t seem to be the type tocare about that. No, it's what happened right after. The domino effects that forced her to flee, to run to New York and away from me. But I fear what’s worse, is what has her running back to the one place she despised.

I swallow back the apology sitting on the tip of my tongue. God, I’m so fucking weak for this woman and that’s something I’ve never dealt with before. Something I’m not prepared to face, to understand where the vulnerability is coming from. It would do no good to contemplate the reasons, when deep down I know I will refuse to accept the truth. Not when it’s too goddamn unnerving.

Instead, I deflect, something I’m all too familiar with, putting this all back on her. “Shit you refuse to tell me.”

Tears prickle her eyes, a few escaping and staining her cheeks in black as the mascara runs down her cheeks. My eyes follow the trail of tears, slowly appearing before me, down her lips as she blinks them away. The scars she showed up with are nearly gone, but I can still see them. I know they’re there. Behind the makeup, which does nothing to heal the hurt the wounds leave behind but only mask the physical pain, yet under, the skin that’s healed near perfect is still scarred. Emotional pain bleeds longer, burns deeper, aches stronger.

The pain is there, written in the way she looks at me, etched into every part of her being.

“I know what game you’re playing, Damon,” she says, swallowing back the pain in her voice, masking it with a tone of self-assurance. “This tell-all only works one way, right? You expect me to divulge every one of my secrets. To give you insight into what goes on in my mind only for you to refuse to do the same.”

“Why question what you already know, baby.” I know I sound like a fucking asshole, but I’ve let her get too close. Close enoughto see underneath the mask I wear as a cloak of protection against the potential heartbreak I’d endure by her hand.

It’s fucking terrifying how much I have to fight to keep her at a safe distance. But even more alarming is what would happen if I let her in.

Just when I’m about to reach back over to unlock her door, her phone vibrates loudly in her purse. Wynter doesn’t make a move right away to check the incoming text message, but when it vibrates once again and I reach for it, she’s quick to slip her purse out of my grasp. Digging inside for the device, she reluctantly unlocks the screen, her face going pale in horror from whatever she sees or reads on the screen.

Leaning over I try to catch a glimpse but she’s gotten one of those black out privacy screen protectors since the last time. Her gaze immediately shoots toward the front door of the house where I see a black box, sitting on the bottom steps of the porch, a large red bow placed at the top of the package.

Is the motherfucker really sending her gifts now, to my fucking address?

Without another word, I unlock the car and rush out before her, heading straight toward the package, yet once again she’s fucking quick, making it there just before I do. She picks up the box and rushes toward the door to escape me.

Silly girl, it’s locked and now she has no way out.

Panic flashes in her eyes at my advance but it’s not in fear of me, rather in fear of whatever is in the box.

“Who the fuck is it from, Wynter?” I growl, my voice so deep and gravelly it makes her visibly tremble. Shaking her head, she clutches the box tightly in her hands, uncertainty clouding her eyes but what I see more clearly is the fear. This package is scaring the shit out of her. The text messages, whoever is sending them, it’s not a secret lover, it’s whoever she’s running from.

Because since day one, the day she showed up on my doorstep, I knew she was running. The only question, from who?

Taking three steps toward her, her back against the front door with nowhere else to go, I try my luck and ask her the one thing I know she won’t tell me. “Who are you running from, Wynter?”

She shakes her head again before denying it. “I’m not running from anyone.”

I slam my hands down on the front door, caging her in with my hands on either side of her, my body pressing her back into the door. “That’s fucking bullshit,” I shout, interrupting her and making her jump, not expecting my sharp tone.

“Damon, please,” she begs me to stop pushing her, to give up and walk away, just as I was going to before the text messages interrupted us. But I can’t walk away, because despite what I keep telling myself, I need to know everything about her.

“We both know you came to me for a reason. You showed up at my door because you were running. You’ve received plenty of text messages that make you uneasy. And we both know whatever’s in that box you’re clutching so tightly, isn’t a gift you’re excited to receive.” I crowd her space as I slam my fist against the door once more. She flinches, her eyes closing like she’s afraid I’ll hurt her. “Or is it?” I ask, softening my tone yet my anger is still potent enough she keeps her eyes shut. “Because if you’re not running away from someone, if you’re not angry or scared to see whatever’s inside that box, then…” I pause, “Tell me, Princess,” I reach out to caress her cheek, my rough fingertips tracing over every invisible scar, “Is this some scorned lover you’ve been hiding out from? Is he trying to win you back, yet here you are practically whoring yourself out to me? Begging me to fuck you, when there’s another man who’s trying to win you back with pathetic little gifts.”

Her eyes shoot wide, anger radiating off her in a way I’ve never witnessed. Bile burns in my throat at my choice of words, insulting her in one of the most misogynistic ways, but it’s my anger about the situation that forces me to revert to my factory settings of asshole prick.

“Fuck you, Damon,” she cries out as her small hands fist, pounding against my chest to push me away but I don’t budge. It’s fucking sexy to see her so worked up, so angry when I know if I were to slip one hand underneath her thong she’d be fucking soaked for me, regardless of how pissed off she truly is. That’s the pull we have. “If anyone’s the whore in this situation it’s you. After all, I’m the one paying you.”

Her words sting, not because they’re not true, because they are, but I know I deserve them. I’m the one who can be bought, for a price, for a temporary good time. But it’s the bite in her tone, the way she spits it out like it wasn’t her choice to put us in this situation.

I’m so fucking done with this runaround she’s doing, tired of the whiplash her emotions are causing me. One second she’s practically naked, sending me pictures to tease me, the next she’s throwing our arrangement, one she asked for, in my face like it means nothing to her.

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