Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(21)

I stare at him—his words hit to the very core of everything I feel, and yet nowhere in there did he mention how his actions were beneficial to his client. Nowhere in there did he say he put me in more jeopardy than I already was. Nowhere did he explain how offering my body to the senator was going to win him whatever erroneous blackmail items he supposedly had on me.

The words poor baby ghost through my mind but don’t pass over my lips, because this, him, us, is just all too much. It hurts to look at him. To still want him. To still love him.

To finally want something I can’t have.

To maybe believe him.

“Excuse me.” I avert my eyes. “Archer must be looking for me.”

I escape without saying more, uncertain how I’m supposed to feel and unwilling to forgive.

And with my heart a lot worse for the wear.





CHAPTER EIGHT

Vaughn

“Stop staring at him.” The warmth of Archer’s voice hits my ears, and I know he’s right, but I argue with him anyway.

“I’m not watching anybody.”

“Right. Your neck is just permanently angled twenty degrees to the right where one Ryker Lockhart happens to be seated.” He takes a sip of the merlot in his hand and emits a low hum in appreciation. “Does he ever not look good?”

“You’re not helping here,” I mutter under my breath as some of the others assigned to our ten-person table glance our way, obviously irritated that we’re talking when the emcee is doing her opening spiel.

“Is he good in bed? I bet you he’s fabulous. All rough and demanding and . . . durable.”

“Durable?” I choke out and try not to spray my sip of red wine all over the expensive white linen tablecloth.

“Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

I turn to look at him for the first time since the program started and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Yes, you did. Thank you for being so understanding and supportive and . . . my friend.”

“I couldn’t let you be the hot mess you were about to become when you came back from the balcony.” He pats my leg beneath the table. “I saved you just in the nick of time.”

And he did. He whisked me to the hallway, grabbed both of my hands in his, and told me that the best way to show Ryker he doesn’t matter is to not give him the time of day.

“Anything that’s worth fighting for hurts sometimes, Vaughn.”

I narrow my brows. “Who said he’s worth fighting for?”

“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

We’re interrupted as the first course is served, and just in time, because I was about to fight Archer to the death to prove there was nothing written on my face.

Then why do I keep looking his way? Why do I keep making mental arguments in my head for when Archer brings the topic back up?

Small talk ensues with those around us who are trying to figure out if Archer and I are a couple or not. But I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t wander to Ryker’s table more often than not.

Not just to stare at Ryker, though, but also to glare daggers at his date.

“Who is she?” I murmur without mentioning who I’m referring to.

“Nobody who matters.”

I gotta love a friend who is supportive and catty with me. But when I look from him back over to Ryker, Nobody is looking right at me. A smile slides onto her more than full lips, and she arches her brow at me as if she’s saying, Your loss, before running a hand up his biceps and leaning in to whisper in his ear.

“I need some air,” I murmur and scoot back despite Archer’s protest that the main course is coming soon.

My heels click down the hallway to the beat of my own chastisements.

This isn’t you, Vaughn.

Jealousy does not suit you.

He’s bad for you. Stop needing him.

Just as I reach the ladies’ lounge area, I yelp as a hand closes around my shoulder and pushes me past it into a small alcove off the hallway.

Ryker’s lips are on mine the minute my back hits the wall. I shove against his chest to no avail until he cuffs both my wrists with his hands and just takes everything he wants from me with his lips.

It’s bruising and carnal and everything I hate about him and everything I’ve craved from him, to feel anything other than the pain.

And just as soon as he starts it, he tears his lips from mine.

“You son of a bitch,” I sneer at him.

“Never disputed it—”

“You have no right—”

“Yes I do. You’re mine, Vaughn. You have been since that first meeting. So you can play this game however the hell you want to play it. You can push me away. You can slap me across the face if you want. You can block my numbers from your cell. But there is nothing—nothing—that will make you forget what my kiss tastes like. What my lips feel like. How I make you feel. So try if you want . . . but I told you from the get-go, I don’t play games, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

His lips brand mine again with a kiss laced with equal parts lust and spite. This time when the kiss ends, he leans back, and his eyes full of questions lock on mine.

The muscle in his jaw ticks as he waits for me to speak, to tell him I accept his apology and that we can move forward. Call me stupid or obstinate or wishy-washy, but I know my worth, and it’s a hell of a lot more than accepting how he treated me.