Page 12 of Riot's Thorn
That almost confuses me more, though. If he’s not going to rape and torture me, then what the hell am I here for? Maybe he’s ignoring the question because he doesn’t know either. After what he did today, it’s clear he’s not in the business of sparing lives, so maybe he’s as confused as I am.
“It’s time for bed.”
My mind and body want to jump at the chance to slip into sweet unconsciousness so I can forget today ever happened, butcan I relax knowing I’m in the same house as this man? I doubt it.
“You have a spare room?” I ask, hoping the place I can sleep isn’t a permanent one, like a hole in the backyard.
“No. You’ll sleep in my bed.” He folds his arms. “With me.”
My jaw drops. I have no words.
No. Not happening. Not a chance.
CHAPTER FOUR
RIOT
“No,” she grits out. Then her eyes close, and she exhales before blinking them open and softening her tone. “Please.”
“Just don’t give me problems, and you’ll be fine.” I give her a little shove toward the hall, but she only gets a couple feet closer before she turns back to me.
“Riot, please.” It’s the first time she’s used my name, and an emotion hits me I can’t label. It’s the same way I felt when I first saw her. It confuses me, and I don’t know how to handle it.
“You’re being dramatic.”
I didn’t think she could look any more pathetic, but she somehow manages. Her doe eyes, slightly magnified through the advanced prescription of her eyewear, droop and her chin quivers.
“I don’t want my first time to be like this,” she says in a small voice, and it hits me that she thinks I’m going to force myself on her.
Her accusation, combined with the way she’s using her emotions to manipulate me, pisses me off. Mom used to do the same thing. She’d make me feel like shit for things I didn’t evendo, and when I’d try to explain, she’d turn to tears, making me feel guilty.
“Fuck off,” I bite out, startling her. She winces and takes a step back, not understanding my anger. “I’m not a fucking rapist.”
“How was I supposed to know that? I don’t know you.” I study her, trying to gauge if she’s being genuine or if it’s just another ploy.
“I meant actually sleep. Fuck me. You really think I’d do something like that?”
“How am I supposed to know? Is that so crazy? I’ve seen you do unspeakable things today.”
“Yeah, actually, it is.” I stalk toward her, but for every step I take, she takes one back until she hits the wall. Her long, slender neck cranes to look at me, and I place my hand around it and squeeze. Her soft, delicate skin looks so good with my darker, weather-roughened fingers spread over it. “I’m not a good man. What you saw today was nothing—just another day in my life. But I have never and will never put my dick somewhere it’s not wanted.”
The veins on her neck swell the same way the ones on my hand do, our bodies syncing the way they react to how I hold her in place, though for different reasons. Hers pulses in fear while mine is from excitement.
“Okay,” she chokes out, pulling at my hand. “I didn’t understand.”
I should squeeze harder, cut off her air supply completely. It wouldn’t take long for her to pass out. After that, it would be easy to continue until her heart stops in her chest. I could chalk this whole thing up to being a failed experiment and go back to living my life. No more confusion or frustration. No more complications. This could all be over. Isn’t that what I want?
Instead, my hold loosens a fragment, and my free hand smacks the wall above her head in frustration, but I don’t want her to know how badly I’m struggling, so I play it off as needing to brace myself. My grip relaxes even more until she’s able to fit her fingers between my hand and her throat, easing some of the fear in her eyes.
A knock on the door breaks the tense moment, and we both glance in that direction. My hand quickly moves to her mouth, cupping it to stop her from making noise. My other hand grips her by the arm and drags her into my room. The space is small, barely big enough to fit my queen bed and dresser.
I prepared for possible complications to the sleeping arrangements while she was showering and got a pair of handcuffs and a strip of fabric ready on top of my dresser. When I push her down on the bed, she opens her mouth to either yell or say something, giving me the opportunity to tie the makeshift gag. It muffles her complaints as I pull her hands behind her back and cuff her. Once that’s done, I take a zip tie and thread it between her joined hands, securing it around the wrought iron posts of the footboard.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’d better stay silent,” I warn and leave the room, shutting the door behind me. She immediately ignores me, attempting to shout, but I can barely hear her as I step into my living room in time for another knock to sound.
I swing the door open, a scowl in place, and find Rigger and the little tattletale, Killer, on my porch. So much for the trust we’ve been building.
“What?”
