Page 44 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

His expression doesn’t change, but I catch the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I needed to get your attention, Dove,” he replies, voice maddeningly calm. “Guess it worked.”

My hands clench at my sides as I force myself to breathe, pushing back the frustration boiling inside me. “You’re fucking unbelievable. All this talk about keeping my life from falling apart and you send the cops to question me? What are you getting at?”

He lets out a soft chuckle, completely unfazed by my anger. His calmness only fuels my frustration, like he thrives off seeing me unravel.

“What am I getting at?” he repeats, the smirk never leaving his face. “I’m offering you a way out, Rhea. A chance to turn your situation around. But you need to be willing to play ball.”

I glare at him, incredulous. “Play ball? You think this is some kind of game?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and grins, as if this entire situation is casual, like we’re discussing the weather instead of putting me in prison for murder. “I’m offering to help you. You need to see it for what it is—a lifeline.”

“A lifeline?” I scoff, shaking my head in disbelief. “You call sending the cops to question me a lifeline? That’s your idea of help? You gave them my name? You had them confront me, and for what!”

He shrugs, his demeanor unchanging, like he’s merely presenting facts. “I needed to get your attention, Dove. Your situation is precarious, and you needed a wake-up call to remind you what’s on the line. But you’re here now, aren’t you? You know you have no choice.”

“A choice?” I echo, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that what you call coercion? You think I’d just jump at your offer after you scared me half to death?”

Thatcher steps closer, the distance between us evaporating. I can feel his presence—intimidating yet oddly magnetic. “I’m not here to frighten you, Rhea. I’m trying to help you realize what’s at stake. You’re so close to losing everything, and I’m offering you a way to regain it.”

I take a step back, heart racing. “By being your property? What the fuck does that even mean?”

He pauses, his expression shifting into one that sends a shiver down my spine. “It means you will be mine…to fuck, to touch, to kiss. Just mine.” His eyes seem consumed by a darkness, a hunger that scares me, right down to my bones. “No one else’s.”

My breath hitches as his hand lifts and his fingers trail across my cheek, brushing back a strand of hair that escaped my ponytail. “Only mine,” he repeats, and the possessiveness in his voice ignites a mix of fear and something unsettlingly thrilling within me.

His words hang heavy in the air, and I swallow, a lump inflating in my throat as I try to hold his intense gaze. It’s difficult when I can feel his hand skim over my skin, my ear, my jaw…just light electric touches that ignite a war in me.

Then, his hand wraps around my throat, light enough not to constrict my airflow but firm enough to hold my attention. My pulse races beneath his fingertips, a frantic drumbeat that echoes the chaos in my mind. It’s a gesture both intimate and intimidating, sending conflicting signals through my body.

“You’re out of your mind,” I manage out, my voice no more than a breathy whisper. “You’re fucking crazy.”

He shrugs, the movement smooth and nonchalant. “Maybe I am,” he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. “But you shouldn’t forget that this crazy man holds all the cards.” His griptightens just a fraction, the warmth of his hand burning a brand on my skin. “I can ruin your life with just one well-placed call to the police.”

A chill runs down my spine at his words, his grip grounding me even as panic flares in my chest. My throat tightens, but not from his hand—it’s the realization of just how much power he does hold, how calculated every move of his has been.

“You’re… so fucking crazy,” I say again, voice strained, attempting to mask the fear twisting within me. “You think I’m just going to be yours because you think you hold my cards in your hands?”

His lips quirk into a dangerous smile. He squeezes my throat. “Actually, I hold your fucking life in my hands, Dove…but that’s why you’re here, right? You’ve thought about it and realized that I’m the best choice. You realized that you don’t have…any…other…option.” He leans in, his breath warm against my ear, and I can feel the cold truth of his words settle over me. “You don’t even realize how exposed you are, how vulnerable…” he pauses and lets out a soft sigh as if he has said too much.

He continues, “But now it’s time to make a choice. You either accept my offer and let me keep you unscathed, or you risk everything you’ve got left. And trust me,” his voice drops to a murmur, soft but carrying an edge that cuts deep, “I protect all my possessions.”

I clench my hands into fists, hating the helplessness bubbling inside me. “You can’t just…own someone.”

He smirks, his hand releasing its hold on my neck to gently tilt my chin up, so our eyes meet. “That’s the beauty of it. You’ll give yourself to me willingly…in the end.” His gaze softens, but the dangerous glint never fades. “Think about it, Rhea. You’ve got two choices: sink or let me pull you to shore.”

My mind races, heart pounding as his words sink in. Every nerve in my body is screaming to push him away, to sever thetwisted connection that he’s somehow forged between us, yet his presence and proximity holds me captive, daring me to defy him.

“Sink or swim, huh?” I reply, forcing as much strength as I can muster into my voice, though the shake in my hands betrays me. “And all I have to do is…surrender?”

He nods. His eyes hooded but I can feel the heat of them searing across my skin. His fingers slide across my chin and loop around the back of my neck, drawing me impossibly close. “Surrender and let me save you, Dove.” The low tone cadence of his words draw me in, pulling me deeper into a hypnotic state and I feel my self-control and pride slip. “Give in and stop fighting. Let go of that pride and just be mine.”

His words hang in the air like a tempting siren song, wrapping around me like a net and pulling me down into the depths. I can feel the walls I’ve put up start to crumble under the weight of his intensity and I don’t think I can rebuild them again.

I’m tired of being anxious, tired of always looking over my shoulder, scared that he might decide to rat me out to the police at any time and thoroughly fuck me. Oddly, this offer presents a measure of safety that is appealing and soothing to my frazzled nerves.

After all, he is Thatcher Van Doren. If he says he can protect me, then I’m assuming it means he would.

“What if I become yours and you still rat me out to the cops?” I ask. It’s still a possibility.

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