Page 90 of Mangled Memory
Declared incompetent.
I know that arm. I know the body behind me. And I know I’m not all right with what’s happening.
I slide toward the mattress and poke my leg out of the covers, aiming for the floor to slip away unnoticed. The arm around me goes taut and a voice whispers in my ear, “You ran away from me yesterday. You didn’t come home. You didn’t call.”
“I assumed when you took ownership you chipped me like a dog, so how was I to know you couldn’t find me?”
“You know better than that.”
“I most certainly do not.” If steam could come from my ears, it couldn’t be more apt.
“Well, you should.” He pulls back enough to push me flat on my back while pinned to my side.
“Oh, do tell me what I should or should not think and feel. Since you’re so good at dictating everythingelse.”
He leans into me a hair’s breadth away and grits, “You know better—” He taps my head which annoys the fuck out of me. “Here.” And then between my breasts covered only in a thin tank. “And here.”
“Why would I trust you?” I seethe.
“I am asking you to trust yourself.”
It’s like freaking checkmate. I can’t argue against my own mind. If I do, I play right into his hands with the wholeincapacitatedcrap.
“I know my mind and I know my heart. Neither of them trusts you. Both want you well the fuck away from me.”
“I believe your first and your third points, but your second?” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. I know you trust me. Deep down inside.”
“You are infuriating. Keep believing your own bullshit.”
“Iknowyou, Ayla. I know you inside and out. I know your mind and your heart and even your temper.” His eyes bore through me. “And I know, without a single sliver of doubt, that you know I will do everything—absolutely everything—to protect you at all times. You can take that to the bank.”
“Like you’ve taken my money?”
“Want to test that theory?”
Fuck yes, I do. “I dare you.”
His laughter is not what I expected. “Get dressed then.” He rolls to his back and exits the bed on the side near the door.
Wait. What? “Happy to call your bluff, Honey.” The last word drips off my lips with disdain. I roll off and jump into yesterday’s ridiculous outfit—the one I was just running for coffee in… mismatched and not for public viewing before remaking my brother’s bed.
“Only you”—Christian offers, as he leans in and redo his side—“could be this angry, throwing down dares, and stop to make the damn bed.” A small smile plays on his mouth.
“It would be rude not to.”
“Right, Princess. Hate to be a bad guest after a shit day.” He stares at my cheek.
“Don’t make fun of me. And it was a shit day.”
“I’m looking at the evidence of that.” His eyes drop from my cheek to the place where my upper arm is discolored under my rumpled sweatshirt.
“Disowned… or as good as anyway. Marked—twice. And still not the worst part of yesterday.”
He holds my eyes but says nothing, his jaw clenching and unclenching as his fists do the same, before turning his back on me and, if I’m not mistaken, mumbling something under his breath.
“Did you say something?” My voice is a taunt.
“I said, we can agree on that.”
