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He’s the eight-year-old boy who collected beach glass for me, shy but proud whenever he presented me with a perfectly green piece. My emeralds. I’ve never told him why my favorite color had changed to green that year, and that I still have each gem he gave me in a mason jar on the shelf by my bed.
I unfold the blanket to drape over him. I’m careful as I lean close, trying not to disturb his sleep.
His eyes flash open. He grabs my wrist and flips me back onto the bed, pinning me by the neck, his teeth bared with violent instinct.
Though he’s left me room for air, suddenly I can’t breathe. The grip on my neck, the weight of a brutal man on top of me. Harrison’s voice is all I can hear: worthless fucking whore. Every fiber of my body knows that fighting back will only make it worse. I go limp like I always do, but I don’t close my eyes. I force myself to look up at the face above mine, to register how this situation is different.
Liam, not Harrison.
Safety, not hatred.
I see the moment he realizes it’s me. His eyes go wide, his face goes slack, his hand lets go of my neck. But he’s still on top of me, as if processing his shock. He’s breathing hard, the press of his body so close I can feel his chest heaving between us. For a moment he just stares into my eyes, his emerald irises so bright in the morning light.
I’m past my terror. Beneath Liam, I’m surrounded by his presence, comforted but confused. This shouldn’t feel good. And yet, I’m smothered in the best way possible. The firmness of my best friend’s muscles reminds me of his strength, and I tremble at the thought of his power over me. But it’s not from fear. It’s a different kind of trembling, and I realize I’m shaking hard. By the way he’s looking at me, I know he feels it too.
Then he’s pushing off the bed, off me.
“Brioni,” he chokes out. “Sorry.”
I hear him move swiftly away. Without Liam’s warmth, my body feels suddenly cold. By the time I sit up, I’m alone in his room.
Chapter 4
Liam
Fuck.
I adjust my pants as I rush into the bathroom. Somehow I close the door without slamming it. Then I’m gripping the edge of the counter, staring at my reflection.
Get a fucking hold of yourself.
Jesus Christ, my dick is throbbing. As soon as I’d realized I was on top of Brioni, my body wanted hers. My stupid fucking body. Wanting what it can’t have.
She’s your best friend. You’ve been best friends since you were eight. You can’t betray her trust like that. Not after all she’s been through.
Sentences that play on repeat whenever I’m around Brioni. I close my eyes to splash cold water on my face. It doesn’t help. Only one thing will, but I’m not about to tear the handle off myself with Brioni in the next room.
I dig through the drawer for my nail clippers, flip out the metal file, then stab it into the side of my leg. Through my jeans, it isn’t enough. I don’t even have to suppress a cry of pain. Unlike Brioni, whose yelp went silent when I choked her. Her eyes full of fear as I squeezed her throat like an enemy’s.
That gets my cock to deflate. I hurt her. It was an accident, but I hurt my precious Brioni.
I splash more water on my face and swish some mouthwash. I don’t look great in last night’s clothes, not in the way she does. But I decide not to change. She’s probably feeling embarrassed enough as it is about last night. I don’t need to go rubbing it in by changing into something clean when she can’t.
Briefly, I consider lending her some of my clothes, offering her the use of my shower if she wants.
I nix the idea immediately. I can’t help but picture Brioni, her skin flushed from the hot water, wearing my T-shirt with her hair dripping wet. The very thought challenges my control. I’m already on edge—I don’t need the temptation of seeing my fantasy in person.
When I step back into my bedroom, she isn’t there. My stomach plummets with the thought that she’s left. But I find her in the living room. She’s tucked herself into the corner of the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest, looking miserable.
Guilt sludges through me. I made her feel like that by attacking her, by pinning her down and making her feel helpless. I sit on the coffee table in front of her so we’re eye to eye.
My mafia instincts got the better of me. But it’s who I was trained to be. Who I am in my blood, and who I can never stop being.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I feel awful that you had to take care of me like that last night.”
I want to clench my hands into fists. She has no reason to apologize to me. Ever. I’m still pissed at my brothers for getting her drunk, but I could never blame Brioni for last night. And this morning, I’m the one who choked her. Yet she’s the one saying she’s sorry. As if shame controls how she feels about herself.
It’s that piece of shit ex of hers, I know it is. I flex my fingers, itching to gouge out his eyes with my thumbs. But I keep my movements subtle. I can’t let Brioni see my rage. Or my violent side.
