Chapter 32

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No chance, no way, I won't say it, no, no.

Briar

Sunlight beats down on my head, the weight both physical and overbearing. I swear at nothing, turn on my heel, and pace another length from the pavilion to the field and back again. Logic dictates that I could be doing all my pacing beneath the roof of the pavilion.

But logic currently seems to be in short supply, and I will not be the only one with a green lawn during a drought.

I laugh into my phone speaker. "You're insane."

"Am I?" Chip's voice hums through the line. "You've just spent the last hour telling me that it feels like you're drowning because you don't want to hurt a guy's feelings. Seems kind of out of character for you."

"He's a good guy."

"A rare breed, I'll admit, but on some level I think you know that good guys can get over rejection. You're the only thing standing in your own way when it comes to really ending things."

My nerves prickle, and my body—sticky with sweat since I've been outside Rowan's mansion pacing in the backyard for over an hour—goes numb. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Means you're in love with him."

I scoff, scoffily, and twist on my heel again. "Absolutely I am not."

Unexpectedly, Lace intercepts Chip's phone—but of course they're together, why am I even surprised they co-oped this one-man job? "I kinda have to agree with Chip here, Bossette. Sounds like you're in love with him."

"I am not in love with him!" Even to my own ears, my voice is sharp, so I calm myself down, take a breath, seek out the gracious shade of the stupid pavilion. "I am a professional, people. I take sad little men apart and make them work for me." I comb my fingers through my hair, wonder why they're shaking. "He's just sweet, and kind, and gentle—"

"Gentle?" Lace echoes, a tilt to her voice that I don't appreciate.

Swallowing hard, I draw my free hand up to my throat. My bruises healed while I was gone, and I've at least managed to keep from getting new ones, so Lace can, respectfully, shut up. "He knows how to be gentle. That's more credit than I can give a lot of men."

"Because you have so much experience with men?" Lace queries.

My nose scrunches as I lean against a pillar, cross one arm under my elbow, and put my back toward Rowan's mansion. "I have experience skinning them alive."

Chip's tone soothes. "Bossette, listen. You're allowed to like him."

"I know I'm allowed to like him. I do like him. I'm just not in love with him."

"We all know that isn't true, even if one of us is still working through her denial."

"Chip. I am not in love with him. He is in love with me. The only thing I need to do is let him down easy enough that he doesn't shatter when he hits the ground. That's it."

Lace drones, "Uh-huh. Because the big guy is terribly fragile."

"I wish I'd never started this…" My chest squeezes, and I grimace. "All because I've been selfish, he… We never should have met. I, at the very least, never should have taken this angle. Fake fiances, right? What was I thinking?"

"Maybe that the illusion of gentle affection might help heal something in his battered brain and prove to him that being loved without scarring is possible?"

My arm drops to my hip, fingers plastering over the low-cut short-shorts I opted for this morning. After so many days in soft frills, I am desperate to get my walls back up. "Are you relaying my briefing for this project verbatim?"

"I absolutely am doing that," Chip says.

"Listen," Lace cuts in again, "we'll be back from Pittsburgh soon, then we can all get ice cream and sort through your feelings, all right?"

"All I need is for him to understand that we're ending our ‘relationship' after the Maxim Project is settled."

"Dearheart, you don't have to run from everything that you care about," Chip murmurs. "I promise you will be okay."

I flinch. "You know what happened last time you said that, Christopher Davis Walker."

"Briar Janice Rosanera." His tone solidifies. It takes one, drawn-out second for me to realize I'm on the verge of tears. A light breeze could tip me off the edge. "Things may not turn out the way you want them to, but that doesn't mean they won't be okay in the end. If they aren't okay, it's not the end."

Great. Fantastic. Another motivational quote for Rowan's poster collection.

"Are you hearing me, Briar?" Chip asks.

My jaw locks. "Sure."

"Whether it's today or tomorrow, or next year, everything will be okay. You are not alone."

"I don't need a pep talk, Christopher."

"And I don't need to be full-named. We'll talk more when you're ready to talk more, lovely. Right now, we have a caterer to check in with, so take this time to recognize that it's not the end of the world."

The connection cuts, and the second I realize I'm alone, it certainly feels like I'll always be.

Leaning my head against the pillar behind me, I locate a wasp nest on the ceiling and stare at it until it blurs. "I am not in love with Rowan," I whisper to myself.

Falling in love would be unproductive. Dangerous. I've always believed that people choose who they love. It's not an involuntary act. Loving someone is intentional. Just like most things. Emotions are based on chemicals, and understanding those chemical smoothies makes dealing with them that much easier.

Love is just norepinephrine, dopamine, oxytocin. A dozen others. And so many of those little pieces don't even cause the depth of care that should come with loving someone. They incite lust. Desire. More unproductive, dangerous things.

I'm trained to exploit the brain's natural, chemical reactions to kindness and meaningless touch.

It's just exceedingly rare that my marks respond with equal manipulation.

He is so kind.

It doesn't even make sense why he'd be in love with someone like me. I'm insane. Completely insane.

We don't work well together at all. We're simultaneously too different and too alike.

Forcing breath into my lungs, I head back inside, up the stairs, toward Rowan's bedroom. I need a shower, and all my stuff is in there. Which I should start remedying, since I'm not staying here anymore and everything will end after the ball tomorrow anyway.

The invasion is over.

I won.

I just wish it didn't feel so much like losing.

I also wish I knew what happened to Corbin. I didn't see him last week before or after the date, nor today during the Maxim-focused meetings that lured me back out of The Giungla. Rowan needs a friend right now. If I weren't so distracted, I'd know what was going on.

Stopping with my hand hovering over the doorknob, I contemplate entering Rowan's bedroom. Again. After three weeks. What if he couldn't bear having my things strewn all over his dresser, and they're gone?

Why…would I care about that at all?

At the very least, I need to see Bugsy the Oreo cookie and remind him of all his secret training.

That's very important.

Because, obviously, I need to leave Rowan with a constant, cruel reminder that I happened.

My fingers close, but I'm frozen.

I am not in love with Rowan.

He was a means to an end.

A tool.

A pawn in life's long game of chess.

Why am I like this? What is wrong with me?

I wish…

I wish my parents were here.

Right before I decide that I can't handle being back in Rowan's room, and I'll just ride home sweaty, the solid door in front of me whips open.

I startle, stumbling back a step.

Expression rigid, Rowan halts before crashing into me. Dark eyes wide, he stares, drops his attention to my tube top, and closes his eyes. A coarse swear leaves him. Then, in the next instant, his fingers latch around my throat. He pushes my back into the wall across from his bedroom door, pinning me there as he threatens the feeble amount of air I'm managing to feed my lungs.

I'm gross, slick with sweat. I smell like the outdoors, disappointment, uncertainty, fear.

He doesn't care.

My pulse thumps against his grip as he claims my mouth, makes it his, and ignores all the apparent reasons I'm less-than-kissable at the moment.

His thigh slips between my legs, holding me up when I start to melt, when I gasp his name against his tongue.

The whirlwind of my emotions turns into a tempest, but there's nothing I can do as he engraves himself into me. Losing my sense of self, I tangle my hands in his shirt and pull.

I don't love him.

I don't.

But I'm not too stubborn to admit that I love what he does to me.

Freeing my mouth and throat, he lowers his face to my neck, kissing hard. Harsh, he murmurs, "You're crying." His hot breath skates against me. "Why?"

"I'm not crying."

"Don't lie to me." His head lifts, and his palm plants against my face, covering a damp trail of tears. "Why are you crying?"

I have no idea.

So I revert to what I know best. Diversion. "Because you won't wear a tux tomorrow."

His brow drops before his eyes roll and he dips his head to my collarbone.

When he licks, I curse and grip his hair in both fists. "If my dress had crinoline, it'd be a ballgown. Yet you're not going to even try to match my energy?"

He nibbles. "I know better than to waste my time on the impossible."

I tug his hair futilely. "Rowan. What's come over you?"

"I'm upset."

"Why? Did something happen?" My chest twinges. "Is…is Corbin okay?"

"What? Yes? As far as I know." Sighing, he takes my hands out of his hair, clasps them together, and traps them above my head. "I'm allowed to be upset."

I swallow.

He kisses my chin. "Struggle a bit."

A shiver wracks my spine, but I test the strength of his grasp, note the precarious way he has me pinned on his thigh, and lose just about all the blood in my body. "No," I whisper, "I don't think I will."

Pinching my chin, he forces my eyes to his, searches them. "Loving you is torture."

Every sensation inside me washes cold, turning my pinned arms numb. "What did you…"

"Loving you is torture," he repeats, dragging his thumb over my swollen bottom lip. "And you know something about torture? I never got used to the pain. I only got better at hiding how it affected me."

Tousled, dark strands of his hair fall across his forehead. Desperation gleams in his eyes.

"Can you see how much you affect me?"

"I…can." Forcing down a swallow, I stare at the raw, unhinged craving in Rowan's eyes. Strength leaves my limbs the longer I watch, and I… I'm scared.

None of this belongs in my perfectly plotted, sixty-two-step plan.

He's supposed to be emotionally unavailable, strictly numb. But he isn't. He is the sweetest, most caring, most tender man I have ever met.

And I don't know what to do.

Papa would know. But Papa's not here.

I have to figure this—and everything else—out on my own. Just like I have. For months. How many more months can I manage that kind of pressure alone? This was my first big project all by myself, and it's a mess.

A complete and utter mess.

Tears rush down my cheeks, catch on my chin, and fall across my chest as something inside me breaks.

Gently, Rowan kisses one corner of my eye. "Shh." He kisses the other. "I'm here."

Everything hurts. I don't know what to do with the pain other than let it consume me. "What if one day—" My voice cracks. "—you aren't?"

"Where am I going to go without you?"

I shake my head. "I don't know."

Lowering his head, he kisses my chest, right above my heart. "If that ever happens, I'll still be here. Always."

I want to tell him that's not enough. I want to scream that idealistic, cheesy lines like that are meaningless. But my throat closes, and I can't force out the words.

In this world, nothing lasts. It takes effort to wake up every day and choose the good things—joy, kindness, hope, peace—when I am in so much pain. Each day is a battle in a war that I'm losing.

It's so hard to exist, and I am so tired.

"I'm scared," I whisper.

"Hush." Freeing my hands, he scoops me up, cradles me against his chest. His lips skim my forehead as he turns. "You're okay, princess."

"I'm not, though." I can't remember the last time I was.

He pushes into his room, walks me to the couch, and sits, leaning back to coddle me like an infant.

His hand runs up my thigh to my knee as he kisses my face, and the stampede in my chest doesn't abate.

"Why are you upset?" I ask.

"I told you to hush." He touches a kiss to my lips.

"You should know by now I don't listen."

He squeezes below my knee then skates his fingers back toward my hip. "Guess I have to train you better, make you obedient. Don't worry." His hard gaze pierces me. "My methods are less demanding than my parents'. Although no less…stimulating."

Oh.

My.

Swear words.

"Rowan, that's extr—"

"Shh."

A nerve pinches, because he totally just stepped on it. I frown. "Don't you dare shush me when I'm talking to you."

"If I don't like what you're saying, I'm claiming your tongue."

"As in cutting it off or—"

He kisses me, purely for clarification purposes, I'm sure.

It takes every cell in my body to remember what I wanted to say when he's done. Half-breathless, I manage, "You're acting weird."

"I'm not."

"I'm certain you are. The only other time you've been this demanding was after…after I got drunk. And said all those things."

"I'm not upset. I'm not acting weird."

Okay, buddy, gaslighting is only funny when it's clear you know I know you're doing it, not when you seem serious. "You told me earlier you were upset."

"Did I?"

I frown. "Are we really playing this game right now?"

"Not everything's a game, princess."

"I beg to differ."

His fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts and drag along the elastic of my underwear. "Then—" He swears. "—beg, Briar. We both know it's a good look on you."

Because I want nothing more than to take him up on this challenge that I know will end very poorly, and likely with us both entirely disrobed, I grip his hand to shove it away.

It doesn't budge.

So, I try to stand and put distance between us entirely.

His arms lock around me, refusing to let me escape.

I'd stomp my foot if I could reach the floor. "Rowan."

"For someone so worried that I'm going somewhere, it seems to me like you're the only one trying to leave."

"Okay. What did I do? Treating me like this and using gaslighting and mind games when you're actually upset is normal abusive, not fun abusive. You know that, right?"

"Sweetheart," he patronizes, "abusive tactics are going to be abusive in any context. You don't know if I'm really upset, or not. Who knows what's too far when I'm playing to win? I get to console my morals by assuring myself it's all part of the game."

"You just said not everything's a game."

The severity in his gaze constricts a fist around my heart. "Did I?"

I don't like this game.

"Stop it, Rowan. You're freaking me out."

"A thousand pardons, princess. That was not my express intention."

I am not in the mood for this right now. I don't handle anxiety very well. I tend to start stabbing people.

After struggling, however, I discover that whatever Rowan's made of is at least ninety-five percent metal. His arms are immovable iron tree trunks, caging me to him. Awkwardly chained to the human chair, I finagle a way to reach my boot.

And find it empty.

Thunk.

My head jolts toward the sound, toward my knife in the wall across from us, embedded in the plaster.

"Looking for that?" Rowan murmurs.

"When did you…" My face heats, and I…

I don't think I have ever been more attracted to a man.

He's stealing my brand. Mind games on top of apparent displays of skill is my very good brand. I don't know that I've ever felt closer to someone.

When the fight leaves my limbs, he loosens his hold and splays his fingers. "Give me your hand."

I do as I'm told.

He whispers, "Good girl," against my palm.

I turn liquid.

"Forgive me." His kisses my pulse. "My style of rewarding isn't as bright as yours. I prefer blunt praise to smiles, laughter, and baked goods."

Blunt praise is so completely my drug of choice.

"Am I being horribly cruel to you, Briar?"

I wet my lips. "Yes."

"So you feel pretty comfortable being cruel back, right?"

The swiftness with which we would wind up making out…

Clearing that thought from my head, I cross my free arm beneath my breasts. "Yes."

"Excellent. I love you."

All the air in my lungs evaporates.

He didn't even pause.

But now, now the silence is stretching between us—something violent and vicious. All-consuming.

My lips part. I can find no words to say.

"I love you," he repeats. "That means if you're determined to leave me after tomorrow, I will let you go. But not until I've fought for you. If loving you leaves me mangled again, so be it. At least I know how to deal with such pain. However…given the fact you've yet to carve out my heart when we're being cruel to each other…I wonder if you just want me to fight a little while longer. Maybe you like it, when people fight for you."

I…hate it when people fight for me. My stomach knots as I come to my senses, twist my hand in his grip so I can crush my nails into his flesh, and hiss, "Do you think you're the only one willing to fight for me, Rowan? Everyone would fight for me. Everyone would die for me. You really think you're special for loving me? When will it get through to you that you're just—" I can't look at him, so I rip my attention away and choke out the words. "You're just another one of my victims."

In a quick motion, Rowan plunges me into the couch, gripping my hands yet again, and stretching me out across the cushions, to the armrest. "Don't be so naive, princess." A hollow smile softens his lips, eyes void as they peruse me. He's the Grim Reaper. And he is so beautiful I could cry.

Why does he have to be everything I've ever wanted?

Cruel as ever, he runs his free hand up my side, heating the bare flesh beneath the hem of my tube top to a boil. "When people fall in love, everyone's the victim. Not just me."

My heart lunges for him. "What are you suggesting?"

"You're in love with me."

I pale. Did Chip coordinate this? Why is everyone accusing me of being in love today? "You're crazy."

He tuts. "Cheap gaslighting. I can prove it."

"Adorable. Do try."

He kisses my nose.

I free the strangled puff of a laugh. "Seduction is a piss poor basis for love, pet."

"Not your pet, princess." He kisses my cheek. "Also, I'm not trying to seduce you. Per chance, are you feeling seduced?"

"I'm pinned to a couch beneath a societally-attractive male specimen. As a straight female, no duh."

"Interesting. You know how love's a game?"

"I have heard it said."

"And you know how you're always playing games to protect yourself from getting hurt?"

I cool my expression. "I'm sure you've now lost me."

"Keep up. Love is vulnerable. Losing is vulnerable. You refuse both. I prove that you're in love with me the second you forfeit." He kisses my forehead. "Forfeit, princess."

I bark a laugh. "And ruin my streak? For, what, you?"

His lips trail beneath my ear. "That is the idea."

"I politely decline the suggestion, and I would like to take a shower, so if you could get off me, I would appreciate it."

"If you insist," he whispers, "but just remember…" He lifts his head, meeting my eyes as he loosens his grip on my wrists. "…this game doesn't end until you give up."

"Or—" I push myself up on my elbows. "—until you do. You'll have to come to your senses at some point and realize how much of a scam I am."

"I'm not a quitter. Loving you is such sweet torture that I would forever blindly succumb to being your victim." He rises, offering me a hand. "That I am neither blind nor particularly victimized should say something, but you might be too busy counting your cards to hear it."

I clasp his hand. "Mind spelling it out for me, then?"

As he helps me up, his head tilts, contemplative. His gaze roams the room—the couch, the door, Bugsy's cage, my glass snakes that seem to have remained on the dresser. At last, he smiles and says, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would mind." Taking his hand away, his slips his fingers into his jean pockets. "Now, if you don't mind, my bathroom hasn't smelled like you for weeks, and it's starting to get to me." Turning on his heel, he heads toward the door. "I'll leave you to remedy what is, truly, a distressing situation." He glances over his shoulder, much too suave for my feeble sensibilities. "Do try not to realize you're in love with me while I'm gone." A predatory spark lights his half-lidded gaze. "When it happens, I want to watch."

A swallow sticks in my throat. "Reverse psychology doesn't work on me, just so you know."

"I know. If it did, I'd beg you to go home tonight."

"I was planning on it."

"And I absolutely wouldn't suggest that you staying in my room so my bed smells like lemon cake again would be a kindness to me."

"Yeah, you totally wouldn't," I mutter, sarcastic.

"Beyond reverse psychology, I also wouldn't threaten to sabotage your vehicle. Or anything extreme like that."

My arms cross, and this absolutely shouldn't be enticing me as much as it is. "Were my car to wind up compromised, I'd hot-wire yours and go on my merry way."

"Briar."

A shiver runs all the way down my back. "What?"

"I'll sleep in a guest room. We have an early meeting in the morning, to prepare for the ball tomorrow night. After we get our information from that and hopefully close on the Maxim Project, you say you're walking away. Please, leave something to haunt me a little while after you're gone."

With that, he slips out of the room.