Page 101 of Sweetheart: Part One

The scent of stale cigarettes rose in the limo, enough to make me want to gag.

I slipped onto my knees before him, nothing in my vision but the dark fabric of his dress pants. I’d been here a million times before.

Two Months Ago

I waited on my knees as Alastor took a seat in the armchair again.

When I could finally look up, it was to see him adjusting his tie, wearing that familiar dark mask. I’d never seen his eyes, but I always imagined what they would look like. How cruel they would be.

“I have a big night tonight,” he said.

“I don’t care.” I replied instantly, feeling hatred in my expression.

“You should.” I could hear the humour in his words. “It’s rather important for your future.”

I said nothing, trying to understand what that could mean.

“Stand.” The command was enough for the words to seize me.

“Did you find the courage to destroy the book again, or was an ice bath enough?”

It was a continuation of the taunt he’d left me with: another book, without a command not to destroy it.

I’d cracked once more, late last night when I’d reached the chapter about managing ruts.

“I threw it off the balcony,” I told him, bracing for his anger.

There was a long pause, but he wasn’t tense. Instead, he breathed a laugh. “And you’re hoping I’ll tell you to do the same?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t, though.

Commanding suicide was one thing a dark bond couldn’t do. But he could—and had—commanded me not to, however. That was the worst of all. Nothing, not even shivering in that bath of ice water made me feel less human. The realisation that death might really be better than what was coming for me.

Knowing he’d taken that choice from me, too.

There was no outburst from him. He was impeccable at keeping his end of the bond locked down. “Such a brat, Vex, when I haven’t harmed a hair on your head.”

“There’s a bite on my neck that says differently.”

He tugged me toward him by my hips, and then he reached up toward my collarbone. I caught his fingers before he could touch me, glaring at him furiously. He pushed past my grip until his huge hand was circling my neck. I tried to jerk back, but his grip clamped down, dragging me back toward him.

“Enough,” he murmured.

That was enough to stop me, the command bringing tears to my eyes.

His touch rubbed up against the bite on my neck he’d left. He’d barely touched me since he’d left it, but there was something possessive in the way he caressed it now.

“You don’t like my bite?”

“I hate you.”

“Then you better pray that tonight goes well for me.”

I stared at him, unsure.What did that mean?

There was no undoing what he’d done.

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