The Knight (Endgame #2)(38)
“Stop,” he says roughly. “I didn’t share any pictures of you.”
“I saw them!”
“Then you know they don’t match the photos we took in this room. You never took off your panties, your bra. Your face was hidden by your hair.”
My teeth clench so hard I hear grinding. “I know what pictures we took.”
“And I sure as hell didn’t share them, even though I had a right to. Damon gave me hell for not passing them on, but I wasn’t letting anyone see what was mine.”
“Yours? Oh no, I don’t belong to you. Not then, not now.”
“I have a winning bid on an auction that says otherwise. The thirty days aren’t up yet.”
“That can’t come fast enough,” I say, challenging him. I’ve never been this fearless confronting him, facing anyone, but he’s pushed me to the edge. “And I already know those pictures didn’t come from this room, but you could have taken them anytime I was in your house.”
An electric silence fills the space around us, setting the colored light in the room on edge. Blue and yellow dust motes dance around us, energized.
“You think—” His nostrils flare. “You think I took pictures of you while you were in my house, without you knowing?”
“How else does someone have them?”
He continues as if I didn’t speak, working it through with slow, pained deliberation. “And you think I shared those pictures with the world out of spite, out of revenge on a girl who’s done nothing wrong.”
Doubt flickers inside me. “Didn’t you?”
I expect him to admit it—he’s never shied away from what he’s done. If anything he seems to take perverse pleasure in threatening me, in using me, in pointing out all the ways he hurts me.
Or maybe he’ll deny it, after all. He’ll defend his honor with the same vigor and violence with which he went after my father. He’ll come after me, and when we clash, it will be so satisfying.
He does neither of those things. Instead he stalks to the window, large hands cradling the window frame, large body canting forward. Over his shoulder I can see the city’s skyline rising high and swerving sideways, like looking through a fun-house mirror.
“You have good reason to suspect me,” he says softly.
I take a step closer. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Avery.” But it’s not the kind of apology that comes with an admission. It’s soft and thoughtful, the kind that would come from a man who gives a shit about me.
“Don’t pull this reverse psychology bullshit on me. I know what you did.”
A short laugh, without any humor. “And what are you going to do about it, little virgin? You’re powerless. No money. No one to help you. Living one step up from a cardboard box.”
It stings to hear him lay it out so plainly, but I have the feeling it hurts him too.
“I can fight back,” I warn him. I’m still pumped enough to do it, finally pushed beyond all sanity. I could hit him, kick him. Bite him. Even with the unspooling thread of doubt that he did this to me, I’d be able to hurt someone for the first time in my life.
“Like you did in the attic?” He turns to face me. “I won’t stop you this time.”
And I realize this is my own personal Rubicon, the line I’m going to cross. There will be two versions of Avery St. James, the one who was a victim and the one who’s a warrior. The one who refused to do harm and the one who slaps a man who won’t defend himself. I’m not sure which version of me is better, but I’m hurting enough to do it anyway. All I have to do is remember the grainy black-and-white pictures of me, taken when I didn’t know it. Shared to humiliate and shame me. All I have to do is remember Justin saying he forgives me for something I didn’t even do.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “I didn’t take those pictures, but I’m not going to pretend I’m innocent. If I hadn’t ruined your father, he wouldn’t have turned on his partners. They wouldn’t have attacked him. You’d have a protector in the world instead of being alone.”
My hands clench into fists. “Keep going.”
His eyes flash with something—maybe regret. Maybe relief. “And that business deal where your father cheated me? Even before that it wasn’t completely legal. He was desperate enough to sell his business for more than it was worth. Desperate enough to include you in the package.”
“No,” I whisper. What does that even mean—include you? Like I’m an object, a little yellow price tag stamped on my breast. “You’re lying.”
“One month.”
“He would never have asked me that.”
“Of course not. He would have arranged for you to find out about his debts. Maybe your credit card would get declined when you tried to buy notebooks and pencils. And then he’d break down and confess how dire the situation was, how horrible I am. If only there was something he could do to please me, something he could give me—”
“No.” My voice rises to a shout. “No. No.”
“I already bought your virginity, Avery. You’ve always been mine.”
Grief and rage collide in a toxic miasma, blurring my vision. A keening sound fills the air, and I realize it’s me. And then I’m doing it; I’m hitting him, again and again, his cheek red with the blows. I’m using all my strength and it barely moves him, the smack ugly and loud. It’s the sound of someone breaking—but not him. It’s me.