Page 164 of Exposé

Ziiiippp.

The cables tightened around my wrists, locking them into place, my breathing hitched. Plastic bit into my skin, my teeth grinding against one another.

"Nate, don't do this."

His breath ghosted over my ear, the heat of it contrasting with the chill spreading through my veins. "You forced my hand." Hisheat radiated across my back, his hips pressed against my ass. "Now, we’re doing this my way."

He released me, and I spun around, facing him. "You're a fucking dick."

"I've been called worse." He dragged the desk chair toward me, its legs screeching on the linoleum. "Sit."

I glanced at the door, then to the seat, my knees damn near buckling.

He leaned on the chair's back, knuckles white as he gestured again. "Now."

I eased myself into the chair, its edge digging into the back of my thighs like the hard, cold verdict of my situation.

Nate moved through the room, gathering my belongings with a determined focus I'd never seen him muster. He swept my laptop into the bag, then disappeared into the bathroom, his eyes staying locked on me through the mirror.

"So what's the plan now, genius?"

He walked out of the bathroom with a slight hitch in his breath, dropping my things onto the bed, he pressed his hand to his side, then pulled them away.

Blood darkened the tips of his fingers.

Shit.

White hot guilt flared in a sharp, tangled web.

My hands twitched behind me, pulling at the waistband of my jeans—my eyes burning.

I did that to him.

I swallowed a lump in my throat as his menacing stare turned back to me.

Nate walked back into the bathroom, his step faltering, causing my stomach to twist and my body to jerk toward him as he caught himself on the wall.

He shucked his jacket off, draping it over the bathroom counter, then lifted his shirt and peeled back the blood-soaked bandage.

I grimaced, our eyes meeting in the mirror.

He deserved this.

After everything he's done to me.

The lies.

Deceit.

He's the enemy.

I rounded my shoulders and raised my chin.

"You can stop glaring." He pressed the soaked bandage against his skin and lowered his shirt, then grabbed his jack and swung it over his shoulders with a wince. "It’s not going to change a damn thing."

"Too bad. I was kinda hoping you'd drop dead."

"Maybe another time, sweetheart." He stopped at the bed and zipped the bag, then shouldered it—the muscles in his jaw clenching. "Get up." I turned my head away from him in stubborn defiance.

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