Chapter 11

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It's not manipulation if it wasn't intentional.

Rowan

Every time I close my eyes, every time I blink, on the tail end of my every breath…

I can't live like this.

I haven't heard from Briar since she kissed me two days ago, yet thoughts of her have devoured my entire life. Sleep or wake, there's no escape.

It's just soft pink lips touching mine. Her hand on my chest. The almost aghast spark in her eye the moment I made myself pull back. Sheer, uninhibited shock crossed her expression in the breathless aftermath. The response still seems too raw to be anything but genuine, and I don't know what to do with the feeling she hadn't meant to kiss me.

Want.

Gripping a fist to my chest, I comb my fingers through my hair and check the clock. She's supposed to be here already. She's late. Is she late on purpose, to mess with me? Or is she too frivolous to care about punctuality?

She makes a mean spreadsheet.

But she's also bottled chaos.

She'd just as soon feed me poison than kiss me again. I shouldn't even want her to kiss me again.

I'm fourteen years older. She's an unknown variable. We only met last week—when she drugged me and tied me up in her room. And the memory of that entire situation should not be painting itself in a new light.

But I think it might be.

I'm more messed up than I thought if finding myself at the mercy of someone kinder than my parents heals something shattered inside.

My fist closes in my hair. I stare at my computer until the words muddy. Her capabilities are commendable. I can hardly begin to imagine how much planning went into kidnapping me without getting caught. I should have her create a report that outlines The Casa's security weaknesses.

And…

I cup a hand to my mouth, lean back in my chair, and peer dismally at the ceiling.

For frick's sake.

Spreadsheets really do turn me on.

I should absolutely not be thinking about asking her to make me more.

My eyes close.

I hate this information with every cell in me.

Flicking my attention to the time once I compose myself again, I discover Briar is nearly an entire half hour late.

Where is she?

As though summoned, in the very next instant, Briar opens my office door and walks in without knocking. At the sight of her, my heart rate kicks me in the ribs, pounding steadily.

I feel like a teenager—a normal teenager. The kind who didn't spend his free time strapped to a chair choking on the putrid fumes of his own blood, working out until he vomited, and learning not to shake when he plunged a knife into someone.

The fact a woman who looks like a Barbie doll might be right about my emotional immaturity strikes a nerve. She's wearing all pink today. Tiny white flowers scatter across her tights, and I want to trace them as I pull her legs around my waist. I want to kiss the birthmark beside her frilly bra strap. I want to impose on her mind in the same way she's invaded mine.

She makes it hard to breathe. So I glare. "You're late."

"Am not. I got here on time. I was just talking to Aster."

For thirty minutes?

Every time I've seen Briar and Aster together, it involves staring. Lots of staring. On his part.

If I'd known he was such a louse, I never would have appointed him as my underboss. As it stands. I offered him the position because he joined shortly after my parents vanished. I initiated him myself. He never had a hand in their darker schemes. I've never had to question his respect or loyalty or skill.

Not only that, he's smart and stable in ways that many of my parents' initiates aren't.

But, I guess, we all have our weaknesses. And his just happens to be the same as mine.

What were they talking about?

Why does it matter?

Am I going to say something stupid about it because I have the emotional security of a damp rag?

"I guess we're leaving now?" I say as I stand. Logging out of my computer, I put significant energy into not looking up. I do not want to see the pearl-pink ripples of cloth caressing her skin. I do not want to think about the weapons she has hidden beneath her skirt. And I absolutely do not want to fantasize about removing them from their sheaths or holsters and running the metal gently over her flesh as I unwrap her and unravel her and—

A swear fills my skull as pictures of her in my hands consume me.

I do not think about women like this.

These sorts of uncontrolled thoughts are what I am actively fighting to protect women from.

I'm making myself sick.

Briar tangles her fingers together in the corner of my vision while I battle my own brain. A white flower that matches her tights paints each nail, the tips look dipped in the same shade as her dress.

She…

Is so effin' coordinated.

Frick.

Frick.

She's beautiful. I can't breathe. Or concentrate.

"About last time—" she begins.

Nope.

Striding out from behind my desk, I fix my palm against her lower back and direct her toward the door, ushering her a stumbling step forward. "We're late, princess. Your PowerPoint included a detailed schedule, so we better follow it."

"That schedule was a joke."

Obviously it was. It didn't include meeting with a contact at all and delineated an entire day of amusement park activities. All the same, I say, "No. It was too comprehensive to be a joke."

She protests, "I allotted thirteen minutes to eat lunch. Who does that?"

"I've always thought fifteen was too long and ten too short."

A laugh explodes out of her, and the sound streaks down my back like a physical touch. Muscles tense, I march her to my car and trap myself in the box with her.

Near instantly, my lungs fill with the aroma of cake, and, in hindsight, accelerating this predicament was an awful idea.

A coy smile teases her lips as I drive, and I want to taste it.

I want to taste her smiles and her skin. I want to discover whether or not she's as sweet as she smells. She has no business looking, acting, or smelling like she does. She's supposed to be dark leather and vinyl—a tease or a torment or a temptation. As dangerous as serrated steel.

Instead, she's soft and warm as sunlight on a spring day.

The worst part is I think I want…both.

I want her warmth to consume me after the serrated edge of her blade abuses my nerves. I want her perfect, pretty pink nails to dig into my skin as her soft lips tease. I want her.

"What?" I growl after the tenth minute of her silently smiling at me.

"Nothing."

I want to shatter glass. Or grip her wrists and press her into the side of a brick building before—

Before I do things I will never forgive myself for.

Shaking my head, I hit the brakes as a light turns red. Then I scowl at her.

She smiles back, not a care in the world. "You're uptight," she says. "I get it."

"You get what?" I fix my gaze back on the road as the light turns green.

"Feelings are especially spooky when you've never been allowed to feel them before." Setting a hand on my bicep, she sets every cell in my arm on fire. "Take a deep breath and let yourself exist. It's allowed."

My lungs fill in response to her command, and I let the air out slowly. So much sweetness. It's like she's covered in icing.

I want to make her melt.

My jaw locks. I am keenly aware when her fingers skim to my elbow, and her head rests against my shoulder. It's such a mundane action, but it's too intimate for my brain to follow.

In my entire life, no one has ever gotten this close in order to be gentle with me before.

It takes everything to stop myself from reciprocating the affection, placing her on a pedestal, and thanking her on my knees for…what?

Daring to touch me without causing me pain?

Something in my head won't stop panicking, like pain is yet to come.

My fingers flex around the wheel before I grip it tighter.

Briar whispers a curse as she traces a tickling fingertip against the back of my hand. "You're stronger and more capable than you've ever been allowed to believe. Process whatever you need to. I'm not going anywhere until we've gotten to the bottom of the Maxim Project."

And then what?

After we get to the bottom of the Maxim Project, find her parents, and put mine in a place where I can keep tabs on them—then what?

This whole fa?ade crumbles, and she goes back to her territory as though none of this ever happened?

Her lips curl, feline. "Missing me already, pet?"

"Not your pet, princess."

"It's okay. This is a safe space. You can be honest." Her index finger traces mine, and I pull my hand out of her grasp. Every line of my skin that she touched tingles, raw.

If I've learned anything, nowhere is safe. I can't trust whatever it is she's doing to me, not while it inhibits my control. Not while it tempts me to turn into everything I despise.

"You really want me to be honest?" I mutter as I check my mirrors.

"Of course. Honesty is the best policy." She brightens, ecstatic. "Another line for your series of motivational posters."

Pity I'm all out of wall space.

Cutting her a glance, I deadpan. "I can't stop thinking about kissing you. Everything tastes like your mouth—every breath I've taken for the past—" I curse. "—day and a half smells like you. We shouldn't be alone like this, because I pride myself in not being a monster, but the things I can't get out of my head…" My mouth goes dry, and I swipe a hand down my face, fixing my attention firmly on the asphalt in front of the car, speeding by. I clench my jaw. "They're terrible."

"Terrible?" she echoes, voice barely above a whisper.

"I like facts and figures."

Breathless, she says, "You want to make a spreadsheet together?"

My heart twists and turns over because she's not allowed to sound like that when she's making such a stupid joke.

"I want to experiment on the shape of you until I know every motion you are capable of, until I understand the reason behind this desire, until I'm not so—" I swear. "—pissed at my own ignorance." I pull into a parking spot far from where the entry gate boasts too many bright colors. It hardly registers that we've arrived until the engine hums to a stop. Turning, I face Briar, cup her chin in my hand, and watch her breath catch. "You are an enigma. The unknown drives me mad. Uncertainty makes me violent. I want to dissect you."

Warmth floods her cheeks, and her pink lips part. Eyes wide, she watches me, flushed.

I want to chart the shade of her skin, catalog it, keep it. Paint rooms with it. Drown in it.

"Toying with me is like playing with fire in a paper house," I mutter. "I have no experience handling the feelings you invoke. I pride myself in not being a monster, but the only thoughts I've had since your lips were on mine have been monstrous."

Her eyes crease with something too close to pity for comfort. "Does it ever get exhausting?"

"Does what?"

Her hand lifts to my neck, grazing across my erratic pulse. "Being in this cage." Her blue eyes soften, knowing, seeing. "It must be awful, living so afraid of what you're capable of. You pride yourself in not acting like the monsters you've seen, all while believing you are one. There's no escape."

"You think you know everything about me, don't you?"

Her lashes lower. "Rowan, you are a color-coded spreadsheet. And an intuitive one at that."

I have never been more flattered or insulted in my life. Puffing a breath, I lift a hand to her bottom lip, trace it with my thumb. "You are much too beautiful."

Her eyes glaze. "You…can kiss me, if you'd like."

I let my hand slip down, tip her chin, frame her throat. I taste her breath on my tongue when I lean in. I want nothing more than to kiss her. But I refuse. "Let's get this over with," I whisper before forcing myself to exit the vehicle while my willpower is still intact. Stretching my back, I turn firmly away from where I know Briar will appear over the roof of the car all dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and pink frilly sleeves.

Given the state of my thoughts, the innocence of her outfit today is so disconcerting that I'm tempted to peel her out of it and—nope. Yet again, we aren't going there. The point is: her clothes should be burned and replaced with a burlap sack.

Unfortunately, she'd probably make that look good, too.

Maybe what she really needs is a paper bag over her head…

My stomach clenches when unexpected touch finds me. My head whips down to find Briar's fingers lacing with mine. Her disarming smile gleams in the sunlight as she takes in the stretch of parking lot leading up to the theatrical entrance. Giant cartoon mascots collect around the vibrant archways, beckoning like characters in a horror game.

"You said no PDA," I murmur as she drags me a step toward the colorful disaster.

"This isn't affection. It's a leash alternative. Gotta take the recalcitrant pet for his walkies."

Recalcitrant?

Is she flirting again? With vocabulary? Honestly, eff her.

No.

No. Do not do that, actually.

A sour frown plants itself on my face, but I ignore my stupid feelings as I scan my surroundings.

Roller coasters tower, looming. Screaming laughter peels. Parents and young children collect at the entrance like flies.

The noise is grating.

People actually do this for fun?

Why are the parents smiling? Why are there other adults without children here? Some people with fully-developed brains actually consider this chaos enjoyable? The constant activity doesn't put anyone else on edge?

Briar glances at me once we've settled into the short line. "You okay, pet?"

"Loud," I mutter.

Giggling—which doesn't help the loud—Briar releases me in order to open the flap of her little white purse. "Here." She holds out her hand, presenting two earbuds. "Noise canceling. For pet's sensitive ears."

I stare at the things. "What?"

"I'm speaking English; must I be monosyllabic?"

Huffing, I take the earbuds, and…the world quiets. It doesn't go silent. There's still a lot going on, but the noise is confined to the back of my head, almost bearable.

"Better?" Briar asks, and her voice is clear atop the background buzz.

Stiffly, I nod.

"You're weapon-free, right?"

My eyes narrow. "Weapon…free?"

Briar bites back a smile, turns me around, and makes me leave my emotional-support guns and knives in the car…

After we finally make it inside, my hands go clammy.

Families. Everywhere. Smiling, happy, healthy families with children who feel safe enough to throw tantrums over spilled ice cream.

This is so far out of my depth.

I'm nauseated.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I brace myself against the blinding scene—drenched in sunlight and cheer. "Where are we meeting your contact?"

"Hm?" Her head cocks, then realization dawns. "Oh. Right. We're meeting my contact in about two hours. Min." She tugs my hand out of my pocket and takes it prisoner again as she points at a very bad, no good massive roller coaster. "Let's ride that."

It takes my brain several moments to register all the words she just said past the sensation of my nerves being on fire. We're here two hours early? Two. Hours? We have to be here—as regular park goers—for two. entire. hours?

I thought she said the schedule she made was a joke.

I might throw up.