Throne of Truth

But that was before I found out she was a virgin.

Before she trusted me enough to give me that first time.

In an odd way...she’d waited for me.

And fuck, that twisted me up inside.

I hadn’t deserved that gift. Not in the slightest. If she knew what I’d done, who I truly was...she wouldn’t have let me anywhere near her, let alone inside her.

You didn't give her a choice. You stalked her. You infiltrated her life. You befriended her father. You’re the worst kind of bastard.

I jogged (painfully) in front of her before she got to the front door. Inserting the key, I didn’t make eye contact, didn’t reach out to touch her.

I couldn’t.

My bones bellowed from Greg’s henchmen beating me awake and the recent fight with Greg himself. I suspected a rib might be broken, and my nose had definitely earned a new bump.

I was sick of the crusty blood on my knuckles and the throbbing in my joints. I wanted to rip off my dirty clothes and have a long hot shower, a triple shot of expensive vodka, then pass out cold in my bed.

But I couldn’t do that either.

Because Elle came first. Just like she always had and always fucking would. She didn’t have a clue what she meant to me and how much I’d thought about her, cursed her, and bargained with my fate over her.

For years, I’d hated her. I’d planned ways to make her pay. But now that she’d been in my arms, now that I’d tasted her, listened to her, fucked her...that hate? Shit, that hate had turned into something so much worse.

Elle didn’t look over her shoulder as she entered the building. Her footsteps were weary as she placed one on the flight of stairs, preparing to haul herself to the twelfth floor.

“Wait.” I strode to the left where the foyer bent in a crescent, hiding the two elevators that served the building. I’d had them repaired and ready to use. “This way.”

She huffed but followed. The slap of her flip-flops sounded like an accusation.

Pressing the button, an elevator opened, and I held the doors while she ducked under my arm and jumped in. She kept her gaze on the old-fashioned round buttons as I stood beside her and pressed my floor.

The only floor renovated so far, and the one I would move out of once the building was ready for inhabitants. I’d rent each apartment and buy another for myself.

The doors closed, and the clunking of mechanisms filled the space.

Elle stiffened.

The atmosphere around us thickened. If there weren’t so much unsaid shit between us, I’d shove her against the wall, haul up that ridiculous nightdress, and sink inside her. I’d force her to say hello to me, to see me, to truly listen.

But I’d lost that right.

I merely clenched my hands and counted the eternally long seconds in my head, so I didn’t terrify her by slapping the emergency stop and forcing her to listen to me with no way out, nowhere to run, and no way to ignore me.

She shot out the second the elevator stopped and the doors slid open with rusty groans.

I followed, ducking around her to unlock the door. Stepping inside the art deco delight, I had no sense of comfort or relief at being back. My blood decorated the floor from the nosebleed I had as I barreled from the bed with thugs chasing me. The interior design company who’d modernized and styled the place had bought the furniture, so there was nothing of me in the walls or appliances. Nothing of me in anything because I’d been taught to be so transient in my world. To only covet that which I could carry. To only steal that which I could use. To only befriend those who wouldn’t kill me.

The three cardinal rules.

Too bad, I broke all three the night I met Elle three years ago.

I’d coveted her when she wasn’t mine to take. I’d stolen pieces I wanted because I had no choice. And I’d befriended her even when I should’ve kept my distance.

Elle kicked off her flip-flops by the door and padded barefoot to the black couch on chrome legs that made it look as if it hovered in the living room.

She sat demurely, her legs crossed, eyes narrowed with focus. She didn’t ask to use the bathroom or beg to rest before we began.

She was all business.

“We’re here. We’re alone. Speak.” Her chin came up. The loose braid she’d done in the gas station looped over her shoulder, begging me to fist it and drag her upright to kiss me. To take what I was desperate to take before she walked out the door and disappeared.

Not replying, I headed into the kitchen, grabbed two glasses, and filled them with water. Popping a few Advil—two for her, two for me—I took my haul to where she sat and waited until she held out her hand for the drugs then took the water.

We sipped silently, swallowing the painkillers as I sank into the chesterfield armchair at a right angle to where she sat on the couch.

She reached forward to put her half-empty glass on the coffee table, watching me carefully.

I didn’t give up mine.

I kept it as physical support, tracing the droplets on the sides, smearing it with grime from my hands. I needed something to hold. Something to touch. I just wished it could be her.

“Are you going to spit it out, Penn, or do I need to leave?”

I brought the glass to my lips, buying another few seconds as I swallowed a cold mouthful.

She shifted impatiently, her thighs tight and fingers clutching the couch.

Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I said quietly, “Where do you want me to start?”

She flinched as if I’d shouted. Her shoulders stayed around her ears as she snapped, “How about the beginning?”