Isabella

Somebody please tell me why I'm nailed to the fucking floor, as if my heels are genuinely glued to the shiny, hardwood floor on the inside of this mirrored box. I try my best to keep my breathing steady, to appear pissed the fuck off—nothing else.

I try to keep my rage on the inside since the bellboy operating the elevator has no business with my private life. If he were to find out who I am or what I do for a living, picking a fight with a guy—and not winning, might damage my image. I can't have that. No fucking way in hell am I gonna let him do that.

Once we're on the eleventh floor, I thank the guy in the elevator and snag Mr. Masen by the elbow. I drag him with me and push him against the wall, his back hitting it with a thud.

"What?" he asks, as if he's an innocent little flower.

"What? Seriously? You really want to ask me what? Are you fucking kidding me?" I'm smaller, way smaller than he is, but it doesn't intimidate me one bit. I keep reminding myself it's just the thought of submitting, the memories. It's not him. It's really not. He's not my type, anyway.

"Hey, what about our truce?"

"Truce? When you make a fucking fool out of me when you know I can't fight you? In public? That's the only place you feel strong, Ginger?" I grab him by the collar of his jacket, and he drops my bag on the floor.

"What did you just call me, Havoc?" His beautiful, jewel-toned eyes narrow at me. He looks lethal, absolutely lethal. Sinful.

"Gin—ger," I spit, my lips so close to his it's making the air heavy. Shit, I really drank too much.

"That's the final fucking straw, little bitch." I gasp before he yanks my jacket. The leather squeaks in his fists, and his grasp is so powerful my heels almost leave the plush carpet.

"What. Did. You. Call. Me?" he asks again, slowly, a dangerous edge to his voice. In that moment, Edward Masen is a fucking predator.

"Ginger," I reply again, unfazed by Sir Masen in full Dom demeanor. I don't care. I don't want to care.

He yanks my jacket even harder, and I swear if he's going to rip it, he's gonna pay. And I mean with more than just to replace it.

Before I can even protest, he's turning us around, pinning me against the wall and he's abandoning all fucking human decency. He kisses me. It's hard; it's rough and wet; it's demanding and hot, and I feel repulsed at the same time. I can tell he's tipsy, the taste of whiskey on his breath. I don't kiss him back even though Masen doesn't back down. Finally, when I feel his tongue—his fucking pierced tongue—glide over my bottom lip, I muster up the strength to pull away from him. No matter how good it feels.

My hand is on his throat, curled fingers applying pressure on just the right spot. I blink a couple more times, lust gone and my head clear again when I push him off me.

I snarl at him, lips clenched tightly when I hold him at arm's length, immobilized, eyes narrowed, head tipped back slightly.

"Want to try that again, princess?" I challenge him. He doesn't reply with a shudder, with the submissive chin to chest position; he doesn't budge. Instead, a wicked smile makes his eyes turn toxic green.

I should leave. I really should, but danger is addictive.