Page 22 of Double Standards
“You told her?”
I shake my head. “No. She just traced one of the numbers for me.”
Axel rises, smooth and swift, then rounds the desk in four long strides. He leans against it, motioning to Trigger who silently exits the room.
Now it’s just me. And him. And the silence.
He braces his hands on either side of my chair, caging me in. His scent engulfs me. Whiskey and sin.
“I asked if I could trust you,” he growls.
“You can.”
He cups my chin, his fingers warm, rough, terrifying. He tilts my face toward his and breathes me in like I’m something he already owns. “Good,” he whispers, his lips a breath from mine. “Don’t make me regret it.”
My heart’s a war drum in my chest. I close my eyes. Not out of expectation—but shame. Shame that I want him. Shame that I don’t want to leave.
“I have a boyfriend,” I whisper.
A long silence stretches between us, thick with something unspoken. Then, slowly, his mouth curves into a smile—sharp as a blade, dangerous in its calm.
“Do you think that would stop me from taking what I want?” he asks, voice low and quiet, like the hum of a storm on the edge of breaking.
He doesn’t say it to provoke. He says it because he means it. Because in his world, hesitation is weakness, and want is just another word for inevitability.
And it works.
My breath catches, heart thudding like a warning I know I’ll ignore. There's no threat in his tone, just truth. Cold, hard, inevitable truth.
Chapter Eight
Boyfriend.The word tastes bitter.
She flushes, and I know.
Of course I know.
She’s not ready to say it—not out loud—but her body gives her away. The way her breath catches. The way her eyes won’t meet mine. She’s not committed to the line she’s feeding me.
“I need to go,” she stammers, her voice as thin as paper.
I don’t move. I hold the silence, let it hang heavy between us. Sometimes, serenity speaks louder than force, and her stance right now is speaking volumes. She stares up at me, green eyes rounded.
“Please?” she adds, and it lands like a match to dry grass—soft, but begging to burn. It’s not defiance. It’s not even resistance. It’s surrender dressed up in the illusion of choice.
Something twists behind my ribs, and I don’t like it.
I step back—not because I want to but because I have to.
She breathes again, like I’ve been holding the air hostage. I let her go, but only for now.
The walk through the building is silent. She doesn't speak. Neither do I. Words would only muddy what we already understand. I open the car remotely and the Mercedes blinks inthe dim light of the garage. She slides into the passenger seat like she doesn’t know if she belongs there.
She does.
She will.
Inside, the air smells like it always does—leather, smoke, and the residual scent of violence; the life I’ve built. She flinches when I drop the gun in the glove box. I don’t apologize. I don’t explain. I just shift into drive and take off.
