Page 119 of Piece Us Together

“What?” I look away from the little shit that’s kneeling on Nolan’s cushion and fix a glare on Hunter that has him taking a step back. “Maison, what are you—”

“You fucking son of a bitch.” I step into him, grabbing the material of my sweatshirt and yanking. “Get this off. Get it the fuck off!”

“Hey. Okay. Jesus—hey, let go, I will—”

“Sir!” the man kneeling exclaims, shoving to his feet and scrambling forward like he can take me. He’s half my fucking size.

I want to kill him.

“Master!” the man yells much louder, almost like it’s meant for someone else. “Fuck—James!”

“Take it off,” I breathe, already losing my grip on my anger as I feel Hunter’s hands clasp around my wrists. He’s not afraid.Why isn’t he fucking afraid of me?“Please? Okay? Take it off. Give it back.”

“Okay,” he says calmly. One of his hands leaves my wrist. It’s lifted. I wait for a hit—he’d be within his rights. Hell, maybe it’s what I fucking deserve. He doesn’t hit me, though. He rests the hand on my cheek so softly that it hurts worse than a hit would have. “Breathe, Maison. Breathe for me.”

I suck in a waterlogged breath, my body heaving with it.

My heart is shattering.

“How could you?”

He shakes his head, looking helpless. “I didn’t know. Whatever trigger I stepped on, it wasn’t in the packets. I didn’t know, Maison.”

“Not that!” I growl, equally thankful and afraid that my anger is returning. “Him! You—god, have you been playing with him this whole time? Is he your weekday guy? Is that why you told us we can only come on the weekends?”

“Who—oh, god,no. Maison—”

“Does he fuck you?” I shout at the man hovering nearby, his eyes huge like he’s some fragile little thing that has no idea howto handle confrontation. He’s probably such a good boy.God, does Hunter call him a good boy? Does he call him darling?

Fuck.

Fuck.

I stumble back, bile rising in my throat, tears stinging my eyes.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

“I fell in love with you,” I admit, each word wavering on the edge of a sob. “How could you?”

“Oh, Maison, sweetheart, it’s not—”

“Did you fuck him while wearing my fucking sweatshirt?” I yell, my hands back in the fabric. I pull hard enough for something to tear. I use my grip to shake him. It’s not nearly as hard as it could be—as it should be—but I fucking love him, I fucking fell in love with him, and I can’t hurt him.

But I trusted him and he didthis.

How was I so fucking stupid?

He stumbles into me the next time I pull at him, but he’s still not afraid.

“Why aren’t you fucking afraid of me?” I mean to yell the question, to be angry, but it comes out wobbly and desperate instead.

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I could kill you.”

“But youwon’t.”

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