no turning back

• thirty eight •

gladys

A long sigh assailed the room as Brant's gaze ticked up to me from across the table. I arched a brow, reviewing the hand of cards between my fingers, and slapped down my winning play: two new runs and a rummy.

Brant scoffed and threw his cards on the table. "Fuck this game."

I snickered. "We're not taking scores then, I take it?"

"No," he ground out, pushing out his bottom lip in a pout. "You always win. There's no point."

"You're such a sore loser." I couldn't help but tease him. He was so competitive and would best me in literally any other game except cards.

I was still laughing and taunting him when the back door opened and in stepped the devil. Not the real one, obviously. My devil.

Elijah eyed us with evident envy despite the neutral expression on his face. I schooled my own expression, the snarky smile disappearing while I collected our cards and stacked them back into a deck.

"Having fun?" he grumbled.

At my silence, Brant cleared his throat. "Yep. Just playing Rummy . . . again."

I fought another smile at the bitterness in his voice, trying to keep up the facade I'd constructed nearly a week ago. It was perhaps childish to give Elijah the cold shoulder, but, after our conversation about Brant, I decided some hills were worth dying on. And this was going to be one.

Brant should go home. Brant should not be used as a pawn in Elijah Zare's real-life game of Risk. Not only had Brant been blackmailed by Elijah's brother into killing someone, but he hadn't even been the one to do the actual killing. While Brant should have gone to the police right away, I understood why he was afraid to. It was still hard for me to accept sometimes, knowing he could have prevented Bernice's death if he had, but he didn't deserve to be treated like this.

"Give us a moment," Elijah said.

I scooted my chair back and rose to stand until his hard voice halted my actions.

"Not you. Him."

My eyes landed on his, my brows drawing together and lips pinching downward. Brant quickly made himself scarce. I failed to notice where he even went, so focused on analyzing Elijah's body language. He gripped the back of a dining chair, his arms fully extended as he leaned forward. A look of aggravation twisted his plump lips and thick, black brows. He looked ready to spar, and I would be lying if I said my thighs weren't squeezed together.

I sat back in my chair and placed my bare feet on the cross bar below the table. "You have something to say?" I asked, my voice detached.

"Yeah," he growled. "I got a fuck lot to say."

After our disagreement days ago, he tried to suck up. He would make food for me, bring me sweets, offer to take me into town, try to massage my back or feet, and touch me any chance he got—whether it be forehead kisses or ass grabs or caressing my side when we lay down at night. Yet, his patience wore down with each blatant rejection.

It wasn't easy for me to be cruel to him; I felt incredibly guilty. My instinct was always to please him, so standing my ground proved exceptionally difficult. I was determined to get my way this time, though. I knew after a certain amount of time, he would cave in. He couldn't go without my affection and attention forever. I didn't even mean that conceitedly; the reverse was also true. My resistance wouldn't last forever either.