Page 25 of Twisted Enemy
Slamming the door closed, I storm to the window. At the back of the garden, there’s a black-clad guard with a harnessed dog at his side. I don’t want to live in a house protected by paidsoldiers. I don’t want to live under threat of the bratva. I don’t want any of this shite.
I yank the curtains closed so hard the cord rips free. I use the same fury to tromp over to the bed, to slam on the nightstand lamp. I glare at the painting on the wall, a dark-haired woman in a red-and-yellow dress with a monkey tangled in her skirt. Her heavy eyebrows meet in a scowl as she mocks my useless fury.
I’m shaking now, my arms and legs trembling like I’m trapped beneath an ice-covered pond. It takes me three tries to tear back the bed’s jade-green coverlet, to pull loose the hospital corners on the flat cotton sheet.
My teeth are chattering. I’m too cold to yank off my hoodie, too cold to strip to my knickers. Instead, I climb into the bed and pull the covers up to my chin and stare at the nightstand lamp and tell myself I should have found a better solution.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I sit up with a start when the door slams back against the wall. Cole fills the doorway, his face a flat mask.
“No,” he says.
I clutch the bedclothes to my chest. “Go to hell.”
“This is not your room.”
“I know it’s not my room,” I say, as if I’m speaking to a very stupid child. “But it’s the room I’m sleeping in tonight.”
“No,” Cole says again.
I turn my back on him, punching my pillow into place and planting my head.
That turns out to be a strategic error. Cole Wolf is capable of moving in absolute silence. I don’t know he’s crossed the room until his hands tug away the coverlet.
His fingers grip my biceps like he’s trying to forge me into a new woman. I shriek as he drags me to the edge of the bed, a cry that cuts off abruptly as he slings me over his shoulder, a firefighter dragging a reluctant victim to safety.
“Put me down!” I shout, pounding his back with my fists.
He shifts his hands to secure his grip. I kick helplessly as he carries me down the hall. Bellowing like a gutted cow, I fight him every step of the way, until he drops me on our bed with enough force to clack my teeth together.
I immediately scramble for the door. “Let me go!” I howl, as he pins my arms and drives me back to the bed.
“No.”
I jackknife, trying to get past him. This time, his arms find my waist. He lifts me like I’m some sort of loose-limbed doll. My jaw is already set when he deposits me back on the bed, but once I’m there I spit: “I’m sleepin’ alone tonight!”
“No.”
I try to strike him, but he catches my wrist and pins it to my side. I throw my head back, hoping to smash his chin, but he leans out of harm’s way. I raise my knee, going for his soft bits, but he twists and I only bang his hip.
I’m twitching like a rabbit caught in a trap. Tiny, harsh breaths scratch the back of my throat, caught between sobs and screams of frustration. “Leave me the fuck alone!”
“No.”
He says it like a fact, as simple as two plus two equals four. And then his hands close around the hem of my hoodie, pulling it over my head. He strips me out of my yoga pants. His fingers work the hooks of my bra as smoothly as pouring milk. He lets me keep my knickers.
I’m panting when he’s done. I’m exhausted. I watch him shrug out of his own clothes, leaving a pool of black on the bedroom floor—turtleneck, T-shirt, trousers. He strips off his boxers, revealing his cock at half-mast.
“Go on, then,” I taunt, cocking a hip. “I’m your wife, aren’t I? Fuck me now. Fuck me later. I don’t get a say.”
“No,” he says.
His grip is tight on my biceps, pushing me back on the bed. He climbs up beside me, using his weight to bring me down to the mattress. He pulls my stiff body to his chest, a brittle little spoon to his big one. When I don’t yield even a bit, he drapes one arm across my belly.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“No,” he says, one last time, his lips very close to my ear.
I want to hold myself as stiff as a fireplace poker. I want to scream loud enough to drag in the armed guard from the gate. I want to stiffen my fingers and find every soft, vulnerable fold of his flesh.
