Chapter 22

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This here's what we call "unhealthy obsession."

Alternatively, a dark romance book boyfriend.

Briar

"You're going to have to wear a tux."

Rowan grunts, one arm thrown over his face. We're lying in bed, atop the comforter, while he processes the information we received from my informant—a representative from the Maxim Project will be at a black-and-white ball being thrown in the underground soon. It promises to be a real sketchy sort of place. With auctions on stolen goods and illegal substances and endangered animals.

So long as there aren't auctions on people, it sounds like fun. Real masquerade. A true what if Cinderella were Italian and the prince were a mafia boss?

To say I'm excited is an understatement.

"I hope there's dancing," I chirp.

Rowan groans, lifts his arm, and plants both hands to his face. "It sounds loud. And awful."

"Oh no. I'm sure it's loud and amazing."

He peeks out from under one hand at me, eyes narrowed. "May I manipulate you into becoming an introvert, or is that too far?"

"Definitely too far, and probably impossible, but I wonder…" I rest my head against his shoulder. "You might be able to craft situations that cause me to develop phobias to extroverted activities?"

He rolls toward me. "I'm listening."

"You could pinch me every time I talk in groups of more than two. Spray me with water whenever I suggest going out or doing things. Your options for punishment are truly limitless."

"Seems kind of like you'd enjoy it."

I'm giggly and wiggly. And, possibly, hyped up on bad decisions. "What gave me away?"

He sighs, but he's smiling now…tenderly. Like I'm…like I'm precious and he can't believe I'm here with him.

It makes my chest hurt.

"Why are you like this—" His fingertips graze up my side to my neck and close around it for no real reason, thumb stroking my pulse. "—when you had a good childhood?"

Given that I'm hopelessly enamored by his hand around my throat, I'm certain I don't understand what he's talking about. "Define good?"

"Parents who didn't beat you."

"Ah. That's a low bar." I touch his wrist, feel his own pulse hammering. "I like people who don't treat me like I'm breakable. I like teeth and claws, wrestling for power until everyone is laughing from the realization power is an illusion—and shouldn't be sought after in healthy relationships. Being terrible and loved anyway is…comforting. It's the…" I press my lips together, try to find the right words, and tuck myself a little closer to him. "It's the no wrong answers. If you're as bad as I am, I don't have to worry about doing something worse."

He squeezes, gently. "I understand completely."

I know he does. Craning against his grip, I kiss his chin. "Everything is deep, but nothing is so serious it can't be fixed or softened into something you can heal from."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. It can take time and effort. It can haunt and torment. But it can be overcome. No feeling is a forever feeling. Minds are so…liquid. You can do whatever you want with them. With enough willpower, the world itself bends to do your bidding. The mind is the only tool we need to accomplish anything. So long as we take care in learning about how our minds function and relate to those around us, anything is possible. You just have to envision it."

"I'm envisioning not wearing a tux to a black-and-white, black-market ball."

I grin. "They should have called it the white-and-black-market ball."

His smile turns wry. "Missed opportunities."

"You need to wear a tux."

Closing his eyes, he settles his forehead against mine. "I'm saving it for our wedding."

My heart skips a beat. "You're just joking, right?"

He lifts one large shoulder. "Absolutely not."

Swallowing hard, feeling the sensation against his palm, I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. This is dangerous. He's not supposed to one-eighty on me. I was hoping for a nice, gentle sixty. Forty, even. Heck, I'd have taken a thirty degree turn away from his unrelenting frown.

Desperate people fall under the spell of my tactics so much harder than I could have ever anticipated.

His eyes open—deep, dark abysses. "Is that a problem?"

"It's…" My breath catches as I purse my lips. "…kind of a problem."

His fingers open, and he sits up, so I follow suit.

"Why is it a problem? Have I not made my intentions clear?"

I toy with the ripples of my skirt. "Did you miss the part where I intentionally fabricate a reliance on me? Could you at least try to be different and not fall for it?"

"I want to keep you," he says. "You've got me addicted, so you have to take responsibility." Caging me, he kneels around my thighs, threads his fingers into my hair, and tugs. "It's your own fault," he murmurs. "You shouldn't joke about some things if you aren't prepared for the consequences."

Heat flushes my skin. "The blame game is classic gaslighting."

"I'm practicing." Pushing me down, he kisses me until I'm gasping for air.

"Rowan—"

He muffles his name, catching it on his tongue. "Don't get hysterical. You know you have a tendency to overreact."

I shiver as he grips my jaw and peers into my eyes.

He tugs my bottom lip down with his thumb and murmurs a swear. "That's it…you're so much more tolerable when you're quiet."

My heart leaps. "That's dirty," I whisper.

"I find it deeply concerning just how voraciously you're eating this up." His hand settles at my waist, firm, heat bleeding through my clothes to sear me. "I thought I'd have more compunctions when it came to employing the behaviors I've policed my entire life, but you're really enjoying this."

I let my hands run up the slick fabric of his dress shirt and over his shoulders. "It's like a game. I love games."

"And the boys you've entertained playing with before weren't able to match you, right?"

Breath sticks in my lungs. "Maybe they were missing a third of my age."

"Maybe." He dips for my mouth again, teases and nips.

"Are you sure you want to marry me?" I whisper. "It's only been a few months. You've hardly had enough time to chart my menstrual cycle and the mood swings that come with it."

"I will absolutely not be doing that."

"If you don't, how will you know when to bring me extra snacks?"

His brow tightens as his face twists into the most uncomfortable ponder I have ever witnessed a man experience. At the end of it, his eyes close, and he releases a sigh. "You can't be making me seriously consider doing that."

"I can. I am. Because that's the kind of person I am. And you can't seriously want to deal with…with me in a life-long capacity."

Settling his elbow beside my head, he lets the weight of his body press into me as he props his chin in his hand. "It's strange seeing you play the role of the stable one between us."

I scoff and try to manage a deep breath; it's impossible. "I told you. I'm deranged by choice. The annoyances are calculated, meant to confuse my victims. For clarification, every romantic interaction and word thus far has been a joke."

He connects the dots of my most prominent freckles with a fingertip. "I like you, Briar."

"Everyone likes me, Rowan. That's the whole point. I make everyone like me. Just like a narcissist." Even to my own ears, the words sound brutal, but something needs to get through to him. Something needs to slow this down. There's no happily ever after for us. I've been manipulating him since before we met, and I highly doubt anyone's capable of leveling the playing field. Even if it's enchanting to pretend such a thing is possible, I live in this game. Soon, he'll tire of playing a few rounds and want the certainty that comes from someone else.

"Last I checked," he says, "didn't narcissists gloat when their victims fawned over them?"

I swat his hand away from my face. "You assume that narcissistic tendencies make sense? Narcissists crave a rush. If you're calm, if you're happy, you're just not adoring me enough. I need you miserable and groveling for my attention. And, even then, it will never be enough for me. Because you will never be enough for me. Because narcissists are never actually even enough for themselves."

He catches my hand, twists it down until a spike a pleasure-pain streaks up my arm. "Is that why you look so captivated right now?"

"I do not," I whisper.

"You, honestly, like me. Like this."

"I like you as a person. That doesn't mean my mentions of marriage—or even dating—were anything more than meaningless little games and useful moves to get us where we need to be. It's a fa?ade, Rowan. And, clearly, it worked. My contacts may never have found the Maxim Project's trail if they weren't feeling threatened that we're moving on. They still need our attention for some reason, so they dropped us a line. They—"

"Sound like the real narcissists." Without warning, he bites my shoulder.

An unseemly sound works its way through my body and up my throat, where I choke it down with the rest of the bursting emotions I am ill-equipped to handle.

He licks as I hiss a weak curse.

How could things have gotten so unchecked? My means of throwing the poor, inexperienced guy out of sync with his corrupted opinion of reality and self has backfired so bad.

"You're supposed to be emotionally unavailable." I let my eyes close. "Don't you remember? You're not supposed to actually be capable of liking me." He's supposed to use me, all of this, as a stepping stone toward healing, then—someday—he's suppose to meet a nice woman who makes spreadsheets for fun, not manipulation. They're supposed to get married after spending months outlining the exact step-by-step events that make up their next five years. Together, they live out their color-coded days while I return to my shadows.

Things were never supposed to end up like…this.

He lifts his head, dark hair falling against his forehead, dark eyes intent on me. "Emotionally, I'm very available."

"You just learned to smile, like, yesterday."

His gaze drifts, petulant. "It takes more muscles to frown. Can you blame me if I'm an exercise enthusiast? It comes with the territory."

My eyes roll. "The point is, we all have our flaws. You're emotionally unavailable; I'm allergic to commitment."

Without looking back at me, he arches a skeptical brow. "You have commitment preferences, too?"

How dare he. My lips pinch. "I'd actually call these issues."

He smiles, seductive. "Nice to know you aren't always delusional."

"That's cheap gaslighting."

Touching a kiss to my forehead, he murmurs, "No, it's not."

"I expect better from you than basic contradictions." Everything inside my chest feels starved for air. Probably because this big man is still pressing against my every inch. "Rowan. I'm serious right now. I don't want you to get hurt. I need to know you aren't misunderstanding. I don't feel anything for you at an emotional depth worth mentioning."

He nods, patiently, and drags my bent wrist to his mouth. "Right. Of course. There's nothing emotional between us. You just like me as a person and enjoy the fun of fooling around."

"Yes, exactly. Liking someone as a person isn't a big deal. I like loads of people. It's the mark of an extrovert."

His gaze slashes toward me. "I'm not misunderstanding. Let's just assume I don't care how you feel. I like you. And I don't remember asking for your opinion on that, princess." His smile stretches—simply…dreadful—against my pulse as it jumps to meet his lips. "Where in the world did you think being in a toxic relationship meant you had a say?"

Wing beats spin in my stomach as my skin flames. I…think I just lost my ovaries. Because they just exploded. I'm speechless. My mind has turned to putty. Where in the world did he find the right?

Gripping my other hand, he pins both in his fist above my head. "I am going to figure you out, unravel you, and make you mine. While you're thinking ten moves ahead and calculating your every motion, I'll be right in front of you—watching. We're the same sort of creature inside, Briar. On the surface, you have no reserve, no inhibitions, but inside? Inside you're just as careful. Inside, you think you're a monster, too. And it eats you up, doesn't it?"

"N—"

He squeezes my wrists. "Doesn't it?"

My eyes close. "You're being very condescending, and I—"

"Don't gaslight me."

"Not everything is gaslighting."

"That sounds like gaslighting."

"Rowan," I snap.

"I thought you wanted us to be the same kind of terrible. Why are you so against it now that it's true?" He rests his forehead to mine, lets his long lashes flutter closed. "Does it scare you to play with monsters who understand the rules to your little games?"

My mouth goes dry.

"Go on," he whispers. "Now I'm asking for your opinion."

Swallowing hard, I swear.

"Honestly, I'd love to. But you're a bit more skittish than you let on, and I'd rather not do anything you might regret."

It is ever so hard to breathe. "Confident men are the worst kind of cocky."

"I have to agree with you. I also might prefer fear."

Even though I'm already lying down, my legs go weak. I shift, swallow again, fight to get a breath that doesn't smell completely of him in my lungs. It's impossible. Impossible. This is awful. This is the worst thing that could have possibly happened. I never accounted for it, not even remotely. Our characters were supposed to clash and spark, reluctantly meeting wherever it served us both.

I got everything completely wrong.

So, I swear again.

"Keep that up, and I'm going to assume you're begging."

Each beat of my heart hits my ribs, making me dizzy.

I'm blindsided entirely when a voice that sounds suspiciously like mine pleads, "Kiss me."

"Perhaps I will."

"Please."

He toys with the idea of it, and I'm about to lose my mind for this man. Everything inside me hums. Every inch hypersensitive. When he leans toward my lips, my heart jerks, trying to reach his. His breath touches my mouth. "Briar?"

"Yes?" I'm breathless, floating, falling apart.

"I'm not wearing a tux."

In spite of everything, I laugh, and he captures the sound.