Page 36 of Velvet Thorns
“Who?”
“Your parents. They OD’d shortly after you started making real money. But before that, I’d heard they’d started asking about you. They wanted to know where you lived, where you worked, and what you did. They wanted back in, they wanted your attention, and they wanted your money. They would’ve dragged themselves back into your life, and you—you with your too-big heart—you might’ve let them, and I couldn’t let them hurt you again.” My chest rises and falls, sharp and shallow, as the truth begins to crystallize. “I bought them the heroin. Enough to make sure they wouldn’t wake up.”
“You killed them.”
“They hurt you,” he replies simply, like that’s all the justification he’ll ever need.
“Jesus, Phoenix. That’s fucking murder.”
“I helped them on their way, and you know it. They were already killing themselves; I just sped up the process. How they even survived as long as they did was beyond me.”
I should care. It should hurt that they’re dead and that it was his hands that ended them. But it doesn't, and the truth is, they probably deserved it.
“Have you killed anyone else?”
“No,” he says, those silver eyes never leaving mine. “But I stopped one guy who followed you into that alley off Twelfth Street—you were twenty, wearing this beautiful red dress that made my hands itch to touch you. Another tried to slip something into your drink at that shitty bar you celebrated your twenty-fifth birthday in. You were laughing with your friends, and he was watching you from the corner of the room, waiting for you to turn your back. He walked out of there with his life, buthe lost almost all his teeth.” He drags in a breath, nostrils flaring, like the next part still burns under his skin. “And there was this real piece of shit who waited outside your gym every night for a week. He watched you from his car as you walked out with your phone in your hand and your ponytail swinging, so I handled it and made sure he’d never attempt to touch you or another woman, period.”
How the hell can I even argue with that when the truth is, I’d do the same without blinking? Anyone who hunts women, hurts them, or touches them without consent deserves to be thrown off a fucking cliff. Predators like that don’t need courtrooms. They need body bags.
“I’ve never hurt someone who didn’t deserve it, Shannen,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as me. “That’s not who I am. But the ones who prey on innocent people? I’ll play the executioner, no hesitation, or I’ll ruin their lives beyond repair.” He trails off, brushing my hair from my face, the red strands curling around his fingers. “Please don’t be scared of me, baby. Hate me, hit me, fucking scream at me if you need to; I can take all of it. I deserve all of it. But don’t ever look at me like I’m something you need to run from because I would never hurt you. Not you. I know you don’t believe me, not after everything, and I know I’ve given you every reason to doubt me, but I would never harm a single hair on your beautiful, maddening, perfect head. You’re the only thing in this fucked-up world I’ve ever wanted to protect, and I refuse to fail you again.”
He pulls away from me like it physically hurts him to stay too close, dragging his hands through his hair as he stalks across the room like a man pacing the edges of his own personal hell. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey and returns to me, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles beside me again.
“You’re going to need this.”
I glare up at him. “What the hell do you expect me to do with that? I’m flat on my damn back.”
“Open your mouth.”
I do it, expecting him to tip the bottle like a sane person. But Phoenix isn’t sane. He’s obsession poured into a man’s body, made of every dark, forbidden thing I shouldn’t want. He climbs back over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. Never looking away, he takes a mouthful of whiskey. He grabs my jaw, fingers firm and possessive, and lets the whiskey pour from his mouth into mine.
Slow.
Hot.
Intimate.
It’s not even about the drink. It’s the claim, and God help me, it works.
My thighs squeeze together on instinct, heat flooding low in my belly. The confessions, the devotion, the raw need—all of it is doing things to me it absolutely shouldn’t. Phoenix might be a virgin, but I know he’d ruin me. He’s the kind of man who would learn me with his hands, his mouth, and his whole body. And I know that once he figured me out, I wouldn’t survive him.
“More?” he rasps, and I nod, my lips parting for him like I’m silently begging.
He lets the liquid spill into my mouth again, slower this time, eyes on mine, just daring me to break first when he finally sets the bottle down beside us. His hand stays wrapped around my jaw, thumb brushing my skin in soft strokes as I swallow.
“You’re not going to like this next part.”
“I haven’t liked any of it.”
“This is different, Shannen.” I go silent as panic surges up my throat. “I’ve been inside your apartment almost every day since I moved in below you.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. “No,” I finally manage. “No, you haven’t.”
“I have.” His voice is like stone, not carrying an ounce of shame or remorse. “Every night, after I tapped into the cameras and saw you asleep, I came to you. You never knew. I was right there, inches away, breathing you in. Watching you. Touching you…”
I jerk upright—at least, as much as I can, considering I’m still tied to the fucking bed. Adrenaline slams into my system, and for one second, I swear I could rip him apart with my bare hands because if he’s touched me, if he’s violated me…
I know he sees the exact moment my mind spirals to the darkest place possible when his expression turns to panic.
