Page 14 of Brutal Savior

She yanks on it, but I keep hold. I should feel bad about how much I like feeling her struggle, but there’s something electric about it. It’s been over a year since I had a woman. Too bloody long. Telling Quinn I’ll use her if she chooses me has opened the gate on desires I’ve kept shut for my own sanity.

She’ll fight me every step. And, wrong as it is, I’ll enjoy it.

Up until this very moment, a large part of me was hoping she’d choose Edward. I’d have assuaged my guilt and could go back to my carefully planned life with Suzy. Now, feeling Quinn’s useless attempts to retrieve her hand, I find myself hoping she’ll make a different decision.

I’ll enjoy teaching her some respect, and that skinny little arse of hers will fit perfectly over my knee.

Fuck. I take a deep breath. I need to watch myself.

“Let go, you crazy fucking asshole!” She slaps at my hand with her free one. Even with the chain restricting her movement, she manages to make it sting a little. I wonder if she knows how to fight. I’d like to teach her that, too.

Her head rears back, and I know she’s planning to launch herself at me. With her legs locked to the chair, all she’ll achieve is hurting herself, and I won’t allow that. I whip my free hand out and grip the bright pink mass of her hair, locking her in place just as she tries to fling herself forward. She yanks her hair hard, screams, tries again, then glares at me like it’s my fault.

“Stop it. You’ll hurt yourself. You can’t go anywhere, and attacking me isn’t going to do any good. Got it?”

She doesn’t answer, so I give her hair a tug, angling her face up to mine. “I said, got it?”

“Yes!” she shouts, and I can’t resist pulling her hair one last time before I let her go. I free her hand, too, and she twists herhead around to rub at the sore spot, shooting daggers in my direction.

“Fucking prick,” she mutters.

“All you had to do was ask nicely. ‘Please let my hand go, Jacob.’”

She scoffs. “I’m not going to fucking beg.”

Oh yes you will.

The longer she looks at me with cold fire spitting from her eyes, the more I regret giving her a choice at all. God, I’m ready to spank that look off her face. To make her beg, then remind her of this very moment when she swore she wouldn’t.

She shifts on her chair, and I can feel her frustration. She wants to run. To fight. She’s electricity in a tiny bottle.

“I’m going to need a decision, Quinn. Edward, or me.”

Edward wouldn’t know how to train her. He’d bully and abuse her, and she’d hate him more and more each day. Maybe she’d kill him. It’s happened before. Fifteen times in the history of the Brotherhood, actually. Not a bad tally for five-hundred years, but still. It’s one of the reasons Kendrick always suggests choosing a sweet, submissive woman.

Something Quinn definitely isn’t.

“I don’t want either of you! I don’t want this!” She curls her hands into fists and slams them down on the table. Her anger is fracturing, and her eyes turn luminous with tears.

Bloody hell. I’m a soft touch for tears. It’s my one weak spot.

I cover her hands with mine again and rub my thumb over her knuckles gently. “Don’t cry, love. Most Wards end up happy. Look at Eve. Did she seem miserable to you?”

She sniffs and drops her head to hide her face but doesn’t try to pull her hands away. “She’s not me.”

A fair point. And I’m not Gabriel. She’d be a lot less intimidated if she was facing him across this table. Seb wouldprobably have her laughing by now. Dealing with people, especially emotional ones, has never been my strong suit.

Her shoulders stiffen, and she faces me. A tear tracks a slow path down her cheek. I watch it, fascinated, fighting the strangest urge to taste it. That would really freak her out. “People will be looking for me. My friends. My…” She stumbles over something before managing, “The people I work with.”

No family? There’s a story there, evident in the way her mouth snaps shut. Something personal she’s not ready to reveal. I won’t press her yet.

“They’ll think you’re dead. We’ll stage something, a car crash maybe…”

Her eyes widen, and her pale face loses the shred of color it had. There I go, winning her over again with my honesty. And just when the fuck did this become about winning her over?

“No! Not a car crash. You can’t.”

Another weird reaction. Not “You can’t fake my death,” but an objection to the method. The analytical side of my mind jumps onto the puzzle. “And why not?”

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