Our Finest Moment ✔️

18

LIANA

I must still have a death wish, because staring into Colton's deep blue eyes as his hand closed around my throat made me want to break all three of his rules again and again—to experience that one more time. He's nothing but a moody brute, and I thought we had a good thing going on, but as soon as I mentioned that we did—that he wasn't just the monster he'd wanted me to think he was—I was pushed up against the wall, and my lower abdomen started to burn.

I hate that he apparently has that effect on me. I hate that he can threaten me, and my life, again and again, and I can't do anything but listen. And I definitely hate that my body betrays my feelings for him and his actions.

At least my soon-to-be mother-in-law can cook, because holy smokes, that lasagna was good.. It almost made me forget about Colton's anger issues, and made me focus on how lucky I'll be to experience her cooking from time to time. Even if that means I'll have to pretend to be deeply in love with her son, it'll be worth it.

I'm in a particular mood at the moment that makes me not want to face anyone or anything, especially not my fake husband-to-be, so when there is a knock on my door, I have to close my eyes and fight the urge to yell "no".

Instead I put the guitar down, leaning it against the bed as I get up from the floor, and walk over to the dark door. My blood is simmering with who knows what kind of combination of emotions as I reach for the handle and pull it open.

What meets me is the midnight blue gaze of Colton, his head leaning on his bare forearm as his elbow leans against the doorframe. Even though I'm mad at him, I have to admit he looks gorgeous. Mouthwateringly so, in fact.

I cross my arms and incline my head to show him I'm not pleased, and to wait for whatever it is he has to say.

"I require your presence, fiancée," he states darkly, as if that's supposed to make me jump through a hoop or something. I mean, I probably would—if he told me to—because I'm still debating whether death or this life with him is the best option.

"What for?" I ask, putting on my sweetest, most obviously fake smile.

In all his gloriousness, he steps back and lowers his arm, holding it out towards the hallway, inviting me to join him. "Business," he tells me flatly.

"Are we official, then?" I eye him carefully, stepping out into the dark hallway, towards him. My blood is still simmering with emotions from our previous encounter, but I try to hold my feelings at bay. For now.

"Not yet," he says as I close my door. He starts walking and puts his tattooed hands into his pockets.

I mutter a curse under my breath at how good he looks with those black sleeves pulled up to his elbows, and how much I sort of wish I could see his back muscles move under the dark fabric, just like when he wore that sweaty t-shirt. I'm a whole mess. Hormonal mess, maybe. I start to wonder whether it's because he looks like an incubus sent to seduce me into sin, or because I'm eating normally again, and my body and hormones are going crazy from the sudden change.

Not that I'm complaining about the view, or anything, I just want to be angry with him, not drool at the sight of him and forget everything else.

I'm weak. And I need to get laid. Maybe that will help me store all these unwelcome thoughts away somewhere. Preferably in a black, impenetrable box with four locks and a secret code and handshake I won't ever remember.

"You're not forgiven, by the way," I mutter, my arms still crossed as I follow him down the stairs.

"Didn't think I needed to be," he replies, as if he doesn't care. Yet, he asks, "For what?"