Chapter Three: A Collision of Two Worlds

"What am I?"

"You're irreplaceable," Tig murmured in a lovely but empty tone. A sound was present that only those with great mental suffering and distress could hear. A dog whistle for internal turmoil and ground zero for emotional combustion.

Rosamund heard him, she heard his well-camouflaged basal needs crying for fulfillment, his hope nearly run dry.

Rosamund's heart stopped for a nanosecond as she felt the weight of Tig's free hand land on her hip and give a breath of a squeeze to the taut flesh under her tailored slacks.

For a moment in time, the sun was eclipsed, and she was blinded in the dark, caught between fight or flight as she was only able to freeze.

"I'm not going back to Charming and I'm definitely not going anywhere with you," Rosamund seethed between clenched teeth as she pushed at his chest, thumping her palm against his sternum.

"Why not?" Tig asked as he reluctantly lifted his hand from her hip and grabbed her wrist before she could manage more force behind her strike.

"I don't even know where to begin," she sputtered as Tig stared down at her wordlessly expecting his answer. His cerulean blue gaze was hard for Rosamund to meet as she blinked rapidly and stammered.

"I don't even know who you are, anything at all about you."

"Ask me anything," Tig murmured and tightened his grip until she had no choice but to move in whichever direction he pleased.

Rosamund's breathing rate doubled and continued to climb as Tig pushed her backwards until her back met the cheaply painted wall. "We're so different, how many women have you even fucked today?" she spit.

Tig chuckled, "just one," he thought, remaining silence, hypnotized by her blown pupils under his shadow as he towered over her, sliding around her, his salivary glands stimulated on wondering if her pussy would taste like money.

"I don't want a life like that, I can't see how'd you want to leave everything you know," she continued when Tig remained silent.

Tig watched as a fine sheen of perspiration sprouted up on her forehead and cheekbones, highlighting her carved in granite features.

"I don't belong here or with someone li…," Rosamund snapped before she trailed off and continued trying to wrench her wrists free of his impossible grip.

"Someone like me?" Tig rasped on a guttural growl and raised her captured wrists above her head. He abolished any sense of space she might've held onto as he dropped his face towards her. "Am I not good enough for someone like ya doll?" Tig snarled as his lips hovered over hers, a breath away from touching.

"I didn't mean it like that," Rosamund whined as Tig stretched her arms higher overhead, the backs of her hands scraping the shoddily applied eggshell white interior, flat room paint.

"Yes you did," Tig hissed as he tightened his strong fingers around her slim wrists, bruising her skin as his fingertips dug against the delicate bone structure. He cut off much more of Rosamund's ability to futilely flail as he shifted his stance until he could press closer, practically enveloping her with his taller, wider, and broader body.

Rosamund had to turn her face to the side so her lips wouldn't press to the shirt's fabric over his heart. "Why are you doing this?" she practically panted and felt nervous sweat pool in the curve of her lower back as she couldn't help but pull the tantalizing scent of leather, cigarettes, and something else all masculine deep into her lungs.

Tig temporarily stole Rosamund's breath from her lungs, threatening even to hijack her tidal breath as he roughly shifted the grip of her small wrists to one of his larger hands, the rough webbing between his thumb and index finger was sponge-like in its abrasiveness against her smooth skin.

"What are you getting out of this?" Rosamund shouted when her words found their feet as loudly as she could when Tig yanked her up and off her feet by her designer snake-skin belt. Her bare feet kicked at the empty air as Tig deftly insinuated himself between her lithe thighs and shoved himself close to her center, his nerve endings dancing with delight as he forced a gasp from her slim throat as she felt his growing hardness.

"It won't take long for me to demonstrate doll," Tig growled in a tone that made Rosamund's genetic strand remembered fear from before humans had words for the emotion.

"Get off of me," Rosamund screeched and moved as much as she could, the movement put too much torsion on her restrained joints, and she was reduced to sagging with near resignation.

Tig watched her drop her chin to her chest in close to throwing in a whole linen closet full of towels to avoid a shoulder popping out of joint.

Tig lessened the pressure on her wrists enough that she lost a modicum of the rigidity she had been holding onto, he kept his rapidly hardening length pressed firmly against her warm center.

"Don't you have to get going?" Rosamund whispered as she kept her eyes fixed on the hollow of skin at the base of his throat.

Tig grunted as he shifted his weight until he could slide his free hand up to cup her jaw and lift her face, forcing her brown-black irises that swirled with energy to meet his endless crystalline orbs which pulsed with immeasurable strength.

"We do need to get going," he agreed as the corners of his lips pulled into a small smile as he tightened his grip on her chin when she tried to shake her head free.

As Rosamund was held in stasis under the immense power of his gaze, back in Charming, Clay was staring down at his phone, a frown plastered on his forehead when Gemma sidled up to the bar.

"What's the matter baby?" she murmured and ran her lacquered nails through Clay's short hair, the scarlet, rounded tips teasing his scalp.

Clay sighed and fished behind the bar blindly for something stronger to drink. Gemma noticed how he was extra careful with his sore hands and tisked for him to settle back as she poured them two shots of a potent amber liquor into matching shot glasses, there was the smudged thumbprint from a prospect on the rim of one of the glasses.

"It's Tig," Clay finally started before he knocked back the barrel-aged whiskey that burned a hot path down his throat and warmed his chest and belly before he added.

"Something's going on with him, I'm worried," Clay admitted.

Gemma nodded as Clay unrolled the whole tale of Hale, the missing money, and the runaway niece. She refilled his glass a few times and finally held out her hand for Clay's phone.

"Let me try calling him," Gemma said, "I can find out what's going on," she added confidently.

Tig's phone rang from his rear pocket when Gemma's call connected.

He held Rosamund's eyes as he fished his phone free and blew out a ragged sigh when he saw Gemma on the caller ID.

Tig accepted the call but stayed silent.

"Tig, Tig honey are you okay?"

"I'm sorry Gem," Tig mumbled.

"What happened Tigger?"

Tig licked his dry lips, "I can't give her back to Hale."

"Come back Tigger."

"Not without her," Tig muttered quickly.

"Just come back, we'll figure it out."

"I can't come back yet Gem."

"Go to my father's, I took it off the market," Gem suggested and told him where the keys were.

Tig was silent so long that Gemma thought he'd hung up the phone. Tig had gotten distracted by the feel of Rosamund's thighs around him, growing uncomfortably hard behind his zipper.

"No one will bother you," Gemma promised and made Clay wordlessly agree and nod from where he sat across from her back at the club bar in Charming.

"Alright Gem," Tig murmured and ended the call.

"It's time to go now," Tig mumbled in a ragged whisper as he returned his free hand to trail along her jaw and trace the rough pad of his thumb across her lower lip, keeping her roughly pinned against the wall as he thrust his hips forward, forcing a gasp from her.

"I can't have gotten this far only to die," Rosamund's mind struggled to reason as her whole body sagged in defeat.

Tig slowly released her wrists, ready for her to resume swinging her fists. He reluctantly stepped back and let her slide back down until her bare feet made contact with the threadbare carpet.

"Is everything in the car?"

Rosamund nodded and watched Tig squat down to retrieve her thrown engagement ring. She rubbed at her sore wrists as he tucked the diamond ring in the front of his pocket and tugged one of his own large rings free of his finger.

Rosamund watched in slow-motion as Tig reached out and closed his hand around her left wrist. Her breath nearly stopped as she watched Tig slip his ring onto her fourth finger, the jewelry far too large.

"Just so you don't miss the weight," Tig said he winked at her.

"I thought you weren't interested in having that ring earlier?" Rosamund snipped.

"I'm not," Tig murmured, his tone instantly serious as he added. "I don't want to see another man's ring on your finger."

"Who was that on the phone?" Rosamund asked as she looked down at the heavy ring he'd slipped on her finger, the roomy titanium sphere was spacious around her slim digit.

"A friend," Tig finally answered, waiting until she met his eyes before he let his baser thoughts trickle into his blue orbs until they burned with perverse intensity. "I got us a place to stay for a while, Hale won't be able to find you there," he added vaguely.

All Rosamund initially heard was being further away from Hale and pre-occupied with staying alive to think about the ramifications of traveling with the man who exuded a primitive aura that threatened the structural integrity of her double-helix DNA strand.

"Where is this place?" she finally asked as she looked past him to the door, knowing she wouldn't reach it before him.

Tig nodded in the direction behind the rundown hotels, "further from here."

Rosamund stood as tall as she could and crossed her arms. "What are you getting out of all this," she huffed, "what's the reward?"

"You're the reward," Tig thought to himself before he gestured towards her fallen, red-soled heels. "Don't forget your shoes doll," he murmured with barely suppressed amusement at her indignant posture and sharp sniff.

Tig half-turned and walked towards the bed where she had dropped her keys when he initially startled her and aggressively introduced himself. Tig kept her in sight in case she tried to rush for the door or throw more shit at him that wasn't bolted down. Rosamund felt a wave of lightheadedness make the light seem brighter before she shook her head and squeezed the bridge of her nose, pressure filling her skull at how amazingly off the rails her best laid plans had gone.

Tig plucked the keys from the center of the faded comforter and turned fully towards where Rosamund had remained rooted in place.

"Ready to go doll?"

"Don't call me that," Rosamund said and dropped her hands to her hips. Tig's eyes moved from her slim wrists which were already beginning to bruise up the length of her grey-sleeved arm and the curve of her shoulder which led to her exposed collar bones. His eyes lingered on the smooth valley of skin before moving his eyes to the swell of her breasts, wishing her shirt had some exposed cleavage or even the creamy expanse of what he imagined would be her decolletage.

"What would ya like me to call you?" Tig asked, dropping his voice.

"Rose would be fine," she finally answered.

The corners of Tig's lips pulled into a small, pleased smile as he walked carefully towards her with his right hand extended, slowing when he saw her tense, a gazelle ready to leap from its vulnerable spot on the Serengeti while in an apex predator's sight.

"Tig," he murmured, thankful to any worshipped deity as she tentatively reached for and let him close his large hand around hers.

Tig looked down at their joined hands and the grape-sized bruises that were blooming around her wrist from the rough pads of his fingertips. He kept the regret from his expression as he squeezed her hand briefly before tugging lightly as he spoke. "We need to get out of here."

Rosamund was foolishly laser-focused on staying alive to consider what leaving the perceived safety of the rundown hotel offered as Tig released her hand and she squatted down to retrieve her thrown heels.