With You: With you, I am who I want to be.

by Jensen Kristyne

  I let my head fall back as Theo begins kissing my neck. His lips trail my jaw as his hand pushes into my hair and grabs a handful.

  “Mm,” I moan, feeling the length of him rubbing me. “My mistake.”

  What was I worried about?

  Smoothing his one hand up my back, he loops the other around my waist, forcing my body to rock against him. I lean down, needing his lips on mine. Our hips move together until we’re both panting.

  So, this is the perks of morning wood?

  My stomach clenches at the thought of last night. My need for this man surprises me as I reach down and press my hand against him. My fingers are already skimming the waistband of his boxers, when he reluctantly grips my hand and stops me.

  “As much as I want this to continue,” he whispers, “and fuck, do I want this. Eliza, my. . . er. . . well, I don’t really know what she is—my housekeeper? I guess? She’s like family, and if we don’t go down soon, she will come up here.”

  Theo has a housekeeper?

  I purse my lips as I wrap my arms around his neck. The tips of my fingers dig into his shoulders.

  “Brielle,” he breathes against my lips, while I tease him, pressing my center against his erection. He’s trying but failing to put up a fight.

  I look down at him and whine.

  Did I just seriously whine?

  Hooking my fingers in the neckline of my shirt, I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor. Theo’s eyes grow wide, and he licks his lips. That spark behind his eyes is now blazing.

  “Fuck it.” I feel his arms lace around my waist as he twists me around. I hit the mattress, my hair billowing around me. Theo chuckles, smoothing my hair back before his lips part. I can feel his heartbeat pounding against my chest. “Do you trust me?”

  I nod, fully aware of how out of character I’m behaving, when he uses his knee to spread my legs apart. I weave my fingers through the top of his hair as he licks and sucks my skin until he settles himself between my legs. He pauses seeing my little, black thong, but it doesn’t stop him for long. My back arches the instant I feel his tongue loop around the thong’s base, then he takes it in his mouth and pulls it down and out of the way.

  “Theo!” A voice shouts from outside the bedroom.

  Who the? “Oh crap,” I whisper, hearing footsteps stop just outside the door. He really wasn’t joking about her coming up here to get us.

  “Don’t make me come in there!” The voice calls again.

  “That’s Eliza.” Theo rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we’re coming!”

  I bite my lip and squeeze my legs shut. Oh God. . . did she hear us? Did she hear me? Theo rocks off the bed to grab his shirt for me to put on. “You’d better get dressed. She really will come in.”

  I barely have time to slip the shirt over my head before the door handle sounds and a short Latino woman, with chocolate-brown eyes and blackish-silver hair, barges in the room.

  “Jesus, Eliza. A little privacy please!” Theo barks, but the woman pays him no mind.

  “Oh hush, and put some pants on.” She waves her hand at him before adding, “And for the love of God, tuck that thing. The breakfast table is no place for that.” Shaking her head, her eyes fall to me after he disappears into the closet.

  I cross my arms in front of me, hugging myself. Thankfully, whatever sexual build-up I was feeling died the minute she pushed through those doors. I raise my hand when she continues to stare openly at me. “Hello.” I smile weakly. My stomach ties up into knots. I feel sick. “I’m sorry . . . if you, you know. . . if you heard—”

  “Oh honey, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” Eliza shakes her head.

  Um, okay? Thank you?

  Walking further into the room, she starts making the bed—even with me still in it! “Although, you are the first one to ever make it to breakfast—sleepovers aren’t usually his thing.”

  Stepping off the bed as she rounds my side, I watch as she flips the comforter into place and smooths it down. Is this what a walk of shame feels like? We didn’t even do anything. . .

  “You’d better find your clothes, dear.” Eliza smiles before heading toward the door. “We’ve got company.”

  Company? There are other people here?

  Eliza opens the door and steps out into the hall as Theo pushes his way past her and into the room.

  “Hold up, did you say company?” he asks, moving to stand in front of me when he can see how uncomfortable I am. His upper lip is pulled back into a scowl. “Who the fuck would show up at this time? Is it—”

  I watch as Eliza rocks back on her heels, closing her eyes as she inhales a quick breath. I can read her anxiety from here. Whoever’s here is bad news.

  “It’s your dad, Theo.” Eliza drops her head, her finger moving to scratch, her brow. “And he’s not alone.”

  Ah crap. Mr. Wescott. Here? Now? I look down at Theo’s T-shirt and cross my legs.

  "Yeah, so you two had better pick up the pace." She shakes her finger at Theo and me. "Whatever he's got going on, he's out to kill. Oh, and I hope you like waffles, dear. Chef Travis made enough to feed a small army."

  chapter twenty-five

  THEO

  What the fuck is this asshole doing in my house? I watch his hands press softly against Brielle’s lower back. His eyes hold mine as he leans down to whisper something in her ear. Jesus, he’s such a prick. He's lucky I don't beat his ass just for showing up at my house in the first place. Now he's trying to put on an act and touch my girl. I don't think so.

  "Did you need something?" I ask, reaching out to take Brielle's hand and guiding her to stand behind me. I set my jaw when I watch my father's eyes linger.

  "Oh, yes, Son." He smiles, tossing his eyes, suddenly bored with this game of cat and mouse. That sadistic fucking grin he’s choosing to wear wraps from ear to ear. "I'll let you escort the lovely Brielle to the table and then I'll meet you in the study. It was nice to see you, my dear. You've grown up to become such a beautiful woman. Your brother, Mason, would have been proud."

  Damn it. He just couldn’t help himself, throwing Mason into the pot to let that hang over her head while I’m away. First Luca, and now my father. This girl’s going to make a run for it; I just know it. I would. There's a limit to the amount of doubt one person can take, and lately, we've had a lot thrown at us.

  Minutes later, I push through my office doors and prepare myself for a fight.

  "Ah! So nice of you to join me, Son." I hear the asshole's voice the second the doors slam shut behind me. "I like what you've done with the—"

  "The fuck is this? I made it clear when I moved back that you’re not welcome here!" I yell, silently cursing that Brielle wouldn't let me leave until I agreed for her to change my bandage. Who knows what he's helped himself to while I’ve been gone?

  He raises his hand to silence me, and out of habit, I shut my mouth. It's a bad habit and one that I am working to get over. You don’t scare me anymore, my mind fumes.

  I pause and take a breath as memories flood my mind. Images of him looming over me with his belt. . . a boot. . . my mother's antique hand-sculpted vase. Hell. Anything he could grab—at least, before he gave up and started using his bare hands. He would look at me and see his own personal demons—whatever it was that week. Such a pathetic, poor excuse for a father. A child abuser.

  After everything he did—to me and my mother—he's as good as garbage in my eyes. But I'm not an idiot. The man’s a monster. A monster with an army. Thankfully, with knowledge, comes experience, and if you spend enough time in hell, you learn a thing or two about how the devil operates.

  I touch the three tiny scars and remember the night Brielle found me. She didn't ask questions or pry. She just sat down next to me and started telling me about some stupid guy named Damon from one of her shows. The guy sounded like a complete dick, and I didn’t see the point of her story, but I didn't have the heart to tell her that vampires were the last thing on my mind. So, I let her carry on
. Plus I liked the sound of her voice. It was comfort enough.

  "Excuse me?" My father exclaims, ripping me from my inner ramblings. His voice is hinged as he slowly sets down his phone.

  The pain meds I took while getting dressed are starting to take effect. I didn't want to tell Brielle but she was right. I shouldn't have picked her up last night. I just couldn't help it. There's just something about that girl that triggers me. She's like my own personal drug. The longer I'm around her, the worse it gets. But fuck it if she wasn't worth the pain.

  Like always, it seems my father has made himself at home, rummaging through my things, sitting at my desk. He gives me a quick once-over, his eyes growing ever so slightly before he spins around in the chair to face the window. The gardens, the pond, and my girl are in full view.

  "I am ashamed of you, boy. Mason Sutton's sister? I thought I taught you better than this," he growls. The veins in the side of his neck threaten to pop. "But here you are, acting like a child and risking my legacy—all for a stroll down memory lane."

  I turn my head and look out the window at Brielle. Even from here, I can tell she's stressed, pushing her food around her plate, when she would normally be going back for more. "Brielle has nothing to do with this." I raise my voice, my tone surprising even me.

  My father cuts his eyes in my direction and adjusts himself in the seat. Normally, I don't like to risk triggering him, but I feel the undeniable urge to protect her.

  He rolls his eyes.

  I knew all that earlier shit with Brielle was just for show. My father hates her and her family. It's because of them that people really started to shine a light on what was happening in our small town. Rumors landed into the ears of those willing to listen. Too bad my father is a master at playing the innocent one.

  "Oh, but she does,” he continues. Tossing down the wadded piece of paper he's holding, he stands to face me. My poor chair reflexively spins around until it settles in its natural state. "That little bitch is obviously toying with your mind, making you weak. You should be helping me seal the deal with Mr. Overshire, yet here you are chasing pussy and having breakfast."

  I take a step toward him and try to talk at a slower pace. I want to make sure he hears me clearly. "I suggest you tread carefully, Father."

  For a split second, I watch that iron-clad exterior of his weaken. The man behind the façade is finally realizing that I’m no longer a child he can easily manipulate.

  He steps around the chair and pushes it out of the way. "Oh." He chuckles. "Don't tell me you've fallen for her?" His voice is eerily calm as he leans across the desk and grabs the paperweight. My eyes are laser-focused on the solid, aluminum piece as he tosses is back and forth between his hands.

  Fuck. I grit my teeth and dig my feet into the floor, preparing myself for what’s to come.

  "That would be hard, considering you know I don't date," I say, knowing that my father is baiting me. If I’d said yes, it would be another reason he'd use to back up his choice to have her handled. I refuse to allow him to hurt her.

  It's then my father rears back and launches the paperweight. Luckily for me, his aim is true, and he skims my arm. Nothing truly visible. Nothing permanent. I know him well enough now to recognize his methods of proving a point—the point being that he’s bigger, stronger, and smarter than I am, and that he’s the one in control. But that’s no longer the case anymore. And he not only knows it, he’s threatened by it.

  The first initial impact feels more like a paper cut as it slices at my exposed skin. I can feel the warmth of my blood while thin lines streak down my arm and drip from my hand. But I don't move. I don't even breathe. Like most predators, if he smells fear, he'll attack, and I refuse to take that chance with Brielle just outside. I may be able to handle my father, but it's the ones I can't see that pose the most threat. My father never goes anywhere alone.

  I watch him openly with disgust as he clenches his jaw, smooths his hair back, and collects himself. Sick bastard. He’s the only person I know who gets off on inflicting pain.

  "Look, the choice is simple. If you want to keep that perfect, little piece whole, then end it. Now." He straightens his tie. "Us Wescotts aren't bred for relationships." He walks up to me and places a hand on my shoulder, his thumb driving into my fresh cut as he leans over to whisper in my ear. "You can play hero all you want, boy, but I know you." He smiles grimly. "You're just like me."

  No, you're wrong, I want to say. But I know that would be a lie. Deep down, I can feel it. It starts out as an itch—a need to take control. Every time I throw a punch, win a match, or pick a fight. I feel the adrenaline rush—that high. It's addicting. I may not be as bad as him, but it’s imprinted in my DNA.

  But does that make me the same as my father?

  The idea that there could be a chance pisses me off more than anything. He withdraws his thumb and moves to stand on my other side. "This lifestyle. . . it isn't for the weak, and that girl of yours is going to get you killed. She's a fucking weed. A weakness."

  He shoves me forward at the same time that his leg comes up to knee me in the gut. I fall to my knees. He waits for me to stand up before he walks to the door. As I do, my sides are screaming in pain. I watch him open the door. His free hand brushes down the sleek material of his suit and then he grabs his jacket from the stand.

  "Call Katrina. I don't care what you have to promise, but you will bring her to the ball."

  "And if I don't?" I manage to steady myself long enough to add, "If I'm done?"

  "Well, I would hate to see any other harm come to the Sutton family." His tone is placid. His face, emotionless. "I'll see you next week, Son. If you haven’t asked her by then, well, I think you’re smart enough to know what will happen."

  Moments later, I’m looking out the window, watching my father drive off. His men are in tow. Fucking Katrina. She must have whined to her “daddy.” Of course he came here. He would never let anything threaten his business or his money.

  I push a hand through my hair and pinch the back of my neck. Something tells me that Brielle wouldn’t be up for the kind of relief I’m used to seeking out after a run-in with my father. And I don’t want to push her when she’s not ready. But damn it. What the hell am I going to do now?

  As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m falling for Brielle. That is, if I ever even stopped at all, and I know she feels the same. She hasn't told me yet, but I can see it in the way she looks at me. It's the same way I imagine I look at her. I can't turn my back on her, again. I would lose her forever. But can I really jeopardize her life because of my own selfishness?

  "There you are.”

  I feel my tension fade at the sound of her voice. Brielle’s gentle tone and those innocent fucking eyes draw me into her, as I turn and watch her walk through the back doors.

  I pull her into my arms and kiss her forehead the second she’s close enough. My mind is spinning as I try to decide what to do.

  "Your father seemed to be in a good mood today." She pulls her chin up to rest it on my sternum. Her emerald eyes looking up at me. "He seemed changed, in a way. Maybe he's trying to make an effort?"

  I mentally roll my eyes. If only she knew. My father is the fucking devil.

  I lean down and brush my lips against hers, needing the distraction, which she happily delivers. "Can we not talk about my father?" I whisper against her lips. My inhibitions are already fading the longer I'm next to her. I hear her answer in the form of a moan, as she pushes up on her tiptoes to wrap her slender arms around my neck. Her lips part, and I dip my tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss.

  The tiny voice that is my inner mind scolds me in all the ways I should stop. I can’t acknowledge that asshole just yet. I’ve been down this path before, and I know what my father’s capable of. The threat is real. But the decision looming over my head to walk away or go to war with my father for the chance to be with her is one I refuse to accept just yet.

  chapter twenty-six

 
BRIELLE

  Hey, slow down. You're hurt remember?" I laugh weakly, lifting up on my toes to plant another soft kiss against his lips. I close my eyes and lean into him. "Are you ready for breakfast now?"

  Theo runs his hands down my arms and squeezes them. "I was actually thinking about skipping breakfast." He lowers his head. His mouth folds over mine as he sucks in my bottom lip, softly biting it. "What I want isn't on the menu."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Eliza disappear around the corner. "Shh," I playfully swat his arm. A slow flutter comes to life in my stomach as I see that spark building behind his eyes. "She’ll hear you."

  "So?" He arches his brow. His lips curl into that handsome smile I've always loved. "All I want is you, babe. What are you doing today?"

  He presses me against the half wall between the kitchen and the dining room. His hand comes up to cup my chin as he crashes his lips against mine. He uses his knee to maneuver his way between my legs. This new appetite he’s drummed up makes me wonder if there isn't something more driving him—like a fight with his father. . .

  I hear him groan when I pull away, but he redirects his efforts. His mouth moves to my neck. "Hey," I moan and lean into his lips. "Is everything all right?"

  Theo laughs and pulls back. I’m thankful for the moment to clear my head. In an attempt to steady myself, I press my head against his chest, waiting for him to answer me when my eyes catch the slight red tint of something wet on the back of my hand. What the hell?

  "Theo, are you . . . you’re bleeding?" I yell when I realize that it’s blood.

  I can feel my mind spiraling into full panic mode when I push up his sleeve and find a gash stretching along his bicep.

  "It's nothing." He shrugs me off gently and moves toward the kitchen sink. He turns on the water, slapping handfuls over the open wound. "Just drop it, Brielle. I mean it."