Addicted (Ethan Frost #2)(46)

“He has stood up to them for me!”

Miles inclines his head. “Good for him. But there’s going to come a time when his family needs something or his company needs something or he just wants something really bad. And you’re going to be the collateral damage. How are you going to deal with that?”

“The same way I dealt with it when Mom and Dad took a bribe to cover up my rape and assault. I just will.” I take a sip of my coffee, try to pretend that my hand isn’t shaking all to hell. “But it’s not going to happen. Ethan won’t do that to me.”

“I hope you’re right. But you need to understand, he won’t see it as betrayal. It’ll probably be only business for him. A business deal he needs to make for Frost Industries. A business opportunity that his stepfather needs to explore. Whatever. But it will happen, Chloe. It always happens. He’ll crawl back into the gutter with Brandon or with his viper of a mother, his demon of a stepfather. Either way, it will destroy you.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do. I may be a scientist who spends most of his time in his lab, but I’ve studied history. I know how political intrigue works. I know how betrayal works. The only question is, do you?”





Chapter Fourteen


My brother’s words stay with me long after he leaves to catch his return flight to Boston. I wish they didn’t, wish I could just block them out of my head, but I can’t.

It’s not that I think Miles is right. I don’t.

I know Ethan. I love Ethan. He loves me.

He would never betray me.

Except … except … I’ve been wrong before. Really wrong. And where did it get me?

Raped and bruised and bleeding in a deserted parking lot.

Emotionally violated and devastated and broken in a soulless lawyer’s office.

Terrified and vulnerable and sad, so sad, in the twisted staircases and empty halls of my school.

I survived all of that because I told myself I would get out. Told myself I would make a new life far away from what had happened to me, where I would never have to think about it again. And I have. I have. Before Ethan and now with Ethan. It’s a good life. It’s a life I’m proud of.

It’s a life that a small part of me is still utterly terrified will be yanked away at any moment. And though I know it’s wrong to place my happiness in a man’s hands, there’s a part of me that knows if I lose Ethan I’ll never be the same again. I’m in too deep, totally addicted to the way he makes me feel, emotionally and physically.

It’s a haunting thought, one that stays with me no matter how hard I try to banish it.

At three o’clock, Ethan texts me just to check in. I’m not sure why, but I don’t respond.

At three-thirty, he texts again.

I still don’t respond.

At four forty-five. You ok?

I answer with a smiley face I’m far from feeling.

Chloe?

I turn my phone off.

At six o’clock, a box is delivered to my apartment. It doesn’t have a return address, but then, it doesn’t need one. I open it right away—of course, I do—I’ve never been able to resist a present from Ethan, no matter how many emotions are rioting inside me.

Inside the box is a suit—black with a thin silver pinstripe—that somehow manages to be both kickass and intensely feminine all at the same time, thanks to the heavy silver accent buttons and the tiny bits of lace peeking out from the inside of the wrists and lapels and ankles.

It’s Armani, of course, and the moment I lay eyes on it I know what it’s for. It’s a replacement for my one and only designer suit, which I lost in the rain on the beach the other night when Ethan and I made love.

The suit is gorgeous, no doubt about it. Exactly what I needed. And yet as I think of his previous gifts—strawberries and seashells and cinnamon tea—I can’t help but be a little disappointed. I feel stupid and ungrateful, but I can’t help it. I like the Ethan that gives me little just because gifts, little things that matter only because he was thinking of me, only because he knows me. The Ethan who understands that I can give gifts like that back to him, things that say I’m thinking of him. Things that don’t cost thousands of dollars.

Still, I pick up the suit to look at it, and as I lift it from the box, my heart begins to beat faster. Because underneath it is a triangular piece of sea glass. It’s blue, which is one of the more rare colors, and its edges have been worn smooth by years of being tossed between the water and the sand.

It’s beautiful and perfect and the exact color of Ethan’s eyes. I pick it up, hold it in my palm, close my fingers loosely, gently, over the top of it. And swear I can feel the warmth of the summer sand bleeding from the very heart of it into my hand. I don’t want to let it go.

Except there’s also a vintage hair comb I’m dying to check out, made up of swirling cascades of rhinestones—at least I hope they’re rhinestones—in the most dramatic display I have ever seen. It’s as beautiful as the sea glass, and as thoughtful. I have a small grouping of antique hair combs that I’ve been collecting since I was eleven. This is by far the nicest one I own—it’s one of the nicest I’ve ever seen—and I can’t resist taking it out of the tissue paper and holding it up so that the light can make the rhinestones dance and dazzle. Then I’m loosely twisting my hair behind my head and securing it with the comb. A quick glance in the mirror tells me it looks as good as I imagined it would.