Page 70 of Unorthodox
I reach for his shirt, fisting it in my own hands. “Get off of me.”
He just stares at me a moment, my scalp still burning as he pulls at my hair. “You want to fight me?” His eyes rake over my body and I clench my thighs, feeling my face heat at the fact that I don’t have any shorts on, and he’s completely dressed.
“I want you to leave me alone.”
He smiles, his eyes coming back up to meet mine. “You didn’t want Dante to leave you alone, though, did you, love?”
I try to shove him away, letting go of his shirt and planting my hands against his chest. But he still has my hair in his fist, and he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t budge as I push him.
For one second, I wonder if he knows.Did Dante tell him?But he wouldn’t.He wouldn’t.
“Try it again,” Max warns me.
I do, pushing as hard as I can.
He doesn’t move.
“Let go of me!” I scream at him, trying to pull away from his grip, but he doesn’t loosen his hold and I end up hurting myself more as I try to get away, hairs ripping from my scalp. “Max, let go of me!”
He doesn’t.
My neck is bent at an angle, the way he’s pulling my hair to the side, but my hands are free, and I lift one and slap him as hard as I can.
He doesn’t move.
His head doesn’t turn to the side. He barely even blinks.
I close my fist.
Then I punch him.
I know, even before I connect with his jaw, that it won’t hurt him. That it was a poor attempt at getting myself free. That what comes after won’t be good for me.
But it’s too late.
It’s too late, and when he lets go of my hair and I feel a second of relief against my scalp, it’s obliterated by his hand crashing against my face.
My head spins to the side, and my fingers go to my cheek as I stumble backward, eyes watering.
“You want to hit me again?” he asks, moving with me, backing me up against the bed. He yanks my hand from my face, his grip painful as it circles my wrist.
I try to shake him free, and he lets me.
With my face burning, I scream, lunging toward him again, hitting every inch of him I can reach. His chest, his face, his arms.
For a moment, he just lets me waste my energy, and it’s almost satisfying. Getting my hands on him in this way.
I don’t register his face, his posture, the look in his eyes. I just hit him blindly, wearing myself down, and when I have to stop, when I hang my head, my palms flat against his shirt as I catch my breath, I know I fucked up.
I know, because all he says is, “It’s my turn now.”
I pick my head up, meeting his gaze, and my fingers tremble against his shirt. “Max, I didn’t—”
Before I can finish my sentence, he reaches for my throat, his hand wrapping so tightly around me I can’t breathe.
A slow smile curves his lips and I feel physically sick as he walks me backward, toward the bed, one hand still squeezing my throat, the other around my back.
When my legs hit the back of the bed, I sink down, but he doesn’t let go. I can’t breathe, and I think, in this moment, more than any other,he’s actually going to kill me.
