Page 64 of The Bastard Prince

I was losing my fucking mind in this room, combing through every memory I had of Trigger Laperro, ranging from the very first day I saw him in the courtyard of his father's estate, to the last time he fucked me – this morning.

In the shower.

Twice.

Several weeks had passed since theincidentdownstairs and I hadn't stepped foot outside the protective barrier of Trigger's personal living quarters since– quarters that were guarded night and day by his men.

He refused to speak to me about what happened in the meeting, but I knew his father had something to do with it.

It was a test of some sort.

And I had a sick feeling that I passed.

Deep down inside, I knew my being locked up in here was a direct result of what happened that day, it was Trig's way of protecting me, but I felt like a glorified prisoner.

I couldn’t breathe all day long and the only reprieve I got was when he crawled into bed at night and fucked me to sleep.

Yeah, I was so pathetic that I craved my captor’s touch.

Having him inside of my body, stretching me out… it was all I could think about.

We went about our twisted routine in a sick unison of silence.

By day, Trig played his role of big-man gangster in his father's underworld of crime, and by night, I played mine.

Whore to the bastard prince.

I didn’t have friends to distract me from my life.

I didn’thavea life, period.

I could count on one hand the number of times I had left the estate in the past two years.

Twice.

After Trigger left me behind, everything went pretty dark and the day trips and excursions from the estate had swiftly demised.

All I had in life was my books and my thoughts.

And him.

Okay, so I guess I had Patrice, too, considering he guarded me when myintendedwas out, but that was a bust since he was still holding a grudge on behalf of his preciousjefe.

Whenever I tried to spark up a conversation with the hulking bodyguard, he always responded with one-word grunts or, worse, he didn’t answer at all.

He was a real catch, that guy.

Lonely, I fell back into the habit of watching Trig constantly. Obsessed with every single detail of my childhood-sweetheart-turned-enemy, I found myself honing in on everything about him, from his choice of socks each morning, to the way he shaved his jaw, to the sounds he made when he was coming hard inside of me.

I stalked him like a madwoman, never truly knowing what I was planning to do next. I couldn’t seem to garner control over my emotions, never quite sure of whether I wanted to fight him or fuck him.

Deranged would be the favored word to describe my current mental state.

I found myself going over every memory I had of us; the bad, the worse, and the downright bloody – and there had been a lot of bloody over the years.

His shoulder had an Ashton-shaped scar and I wasn't sorry.

He raped me and I stabbed him.

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