“You’re an *.” My voice was hoarse. I was staring at his lips. Why the hell was I staring at his lips? Why was I still attracted to him? What kind of f*ckery was that?

“I’m an *, and you can’t stay away from me.” He was so close his warm breath blew against my temple. “I’m the * who is on your mind twenty-four-f*cking-seven. And I’m telling you now, if Brock has it in his head that he can take you too, he has another thing coming. You’re mine, got it?”

My defiance collapsed into a frown. What did he mean by you, too? Who else did Brock take away from him? Then it hit me, stealing the air out of my lungs and making my stomach tighten with revulsion. I backpedaled, my face crumpling in disgust. My ass hit the wall behind me and I felt my chin quivering. My anger was uncontainable. It filled my chest and stomach, washing every inch of my body with hot, red rage.

Yes, I was jealous. I was screwed up and weird and jealous of the woman who dated my fake-husband. The guy who freaking kidnapped me.

“You dated Catalina?” I felt the pinch of tears behind my nose.

He laughed, a laugh that made his chest heave and his whole body shake with amusement.

Nausea washed through me and I felt lightheaded. Damn Catalina. Who broke up with who? Why did they break up? When did Brock get into the picture?

“Can you please answer one miserable question for once in your life?” I breathed. “It’s not even about our marriage or your job.”

“Stay away from Brock,” he said again, suddenly serious. He slammed his coffee cup onto the island and started up the stairs leading to the master bedroom.

The faint scent of his expensive aftershave wafted through the air, dissolving my knees into jelly. But I stood rooted in my place, “What makes you think that I will?” I shouted behind him.

He continued climbing upward. “Because you’d only mess around with him to piss me off, and if you think I’m not nice now…” He turned his head to flash me one of his wolfish grins. “Then you should see my pissed-off version. That’s some scary shit.”

“Stop seeing your skanky mistress, and I’ll keep my distance from Brock,” I challenged. “Continue screwing around, and you bet your ass I’ll do the same.”

That made him stop mid-step. He spun around, his lower lip jutting out, impressed. “This sounds a lot like a threat, baby Red.” He bobbed his head, zeroing in on my last words. “Is it one?”

“Semantics.” I clucked my tongue, feigning amusement, just like he did when we were in Miami. “You men just love it. “

The way his eyes lit with glee, you’d think I told him he won the lottery. That was Troy. He liked it when I pushed back. Loved it when I shoved enough to leave an impact.

I continued. “I won’t sit here with my legs tangled together and take orders like a good little soldier.” My voice was surprisingly calm. “I’m not my father, and I sure don’t intend to comfortably fit into the tidy, screwed-up box you created for me. You want me to stay away from Brock? You do the same with other women. You mess around with me, and me only.”

Where did that come from? I wasn’t entirely sure, but I liked extra-feisty Sparrow. Knew she might be the death of me, but still rooted for her. She was the crazy underdog who wasn’t afraid of biting the ass of its owner.

“Are you offering me what I think you’re offering?” He tipped his chin down. “Because I won’t be gentle.”

“I don’t want you to be gentle.” I walked across the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast, my tone bored. “I want you to be badass, and cut the jealous tantrums. You act like a chick.”

As I opened the fridge and shoved my head in, in search of something interesting to eat, I smiled to myself. I’d learned Troy, knew that he would take the bait. The harder I fought back every time he messed with me, the more he liked me. I bet if I set his penthouse on fire, he would laugh like it was all a big, fat joke.

“Hell, wifey, I’m game. Let’s play.”

And with that, I knew there would be no more mistresses in the immediate future. For the first time since we got together, I’d won. And victory never felt so sweet.

SPARROW

I SPENT MY shift at Rouge Bis dicing vegetables that Pierre tossed in the trash in front of his sous, saying they were too inconsistent to be used. Pierre made it a point to make sure I knew my ties with Brock and Troy didn’t intimidate him. Guess he had every reason to hate me after the stunt Troy pulled, but I still couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

I answered back and no one answered the head chef back. I was giving him trouble, and like most men in my life, he saw me as a walking, talking headache. An environmental hazard to steer clear of.

After my long day, all I wanted to do was take a hot shower and crawl in bed. I walked into the darkened guest bedroom. I’d already changed out of my kitchen whites at work, so I kicked off my shoes and threw my street clothes in a messy pile by the bathroom door. The immense shadow on the bed didn’t register at first, but then his voice boomed, filling the room with a presence that was much more than physical.

“Get your shit and move back upstairs.” It was an order.

Troy.

I stilled, clad only in a purple undershirt and matching underwear, the boyfriend-shorts style.