Page 77 of Rush of Jealousy

“Take me home, please.”

“No.” His voice is arctic ice.

Is he mad at me? His anger can’t compete with my own self-hatred. I stare at Graham for answers, wordlessly begging for him to speak to me. To him, I am a child. I am something he seems to want to take care of, but doesn’t really want to engage in an equal relationship. We have been on uneven playing fields since we met, and I am tired of losing. Panic rises at his eerie calm. It feels like my heart is going to break through my rib cage.

My fists ball, and I slip my feet back into the shoes. I start to feel along the door handle for a button to open the privacy screen. I need to tell Collins to stop the car. Surely there has to be some way to open the screen. I swipe my hand over the walls and panel of the door, trying to hit any button that I can get my fingers on—willing to beg, plead, bargain. Maybe if Collins is alerted that my door is open, he will slow the car down enough for me to jump out.

And then I see it—a button on Graham’s side. I quickly undo my belt and move my body toward it, elongating my arm to reach. I stretch my fingers and—

“Let go!” I yell, twisting to get out of his grasp.

Graham’s eyes tell me tostop,but I am too stubborn to listen. I flail my arms out and push at his chest.

Graham and I struggle, but I manage to kick a row of buttons in the darkness, hearing the sound of victory as the privacy screen rolls down.

“Everything alright back there?” Collins’s voice sounds out over my pants for air, as he looks at us cautiously in his mirror.

“Can you please take me home?” My words come out staccato as I try to keep the quivering from my voice.

Graham clears his throat, moving me back to my side. “We are fine.”

I glare at him as I watch dumbfounded as the screen slides up again. I feel a wildfire break out through my body, and the heat of my temper explodes in another rage.

“Do something!” I scream. “Make Collins turn around!” I lunge toward him again, but he instantly has me pinned beneath the weight of his leg, turning just at the last moment to capture his victim.

“Settle the fuck down”—he looks into my soul—“before you hurt yourself more tonight.”

“Let me up.”

With one hand, he tosses his cap to the floor. “Not until you calm down. Have you lost your mind? Do you really think you can out muscle me?”

My vision fogs and I see beady eyes. I hear the low-pitched snicker of a demon, waiting to consume me. Take me.

Mark.

His smirk invades my thoughts, and he hovers over me, ripping at my dress. His touch repulses me. My hands tremble as I pull at the fabric. Stop! Don’t hurt me! His fingers snake down my stomach, coating me with a vileness fit for the devil. Stop!

And then I fight. With everything I have in me. I fight.

I smack.

I punch.

I hit and kick and thrash.

Every cell in my body comes together in a force that I have reserved to fend off the evil that radiates from him.

“I hate you!” I scream, my mouth raw.

My body lashes about.

“Angie!”

My hands fly around me, swinging at anything they can to connect with. To feel. To defend. To finally fight back.

“Let me go!”

He turns my hips so that I am straddling him, pinning my wrists to the leather seat beneath me. His gaze penetrates through me, as if he isn’t even seeing me. Like I am a ghost, haunting him.

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