And the endgame of option two?
Simple.
Make him want me past all reason, make him love me beyond all ability, and make him let me go of his own free will. And then...I’m climbing out of here and never, ever coming back.
The only problem was—well, I actually had two problems with option two.
Problem one was, I didn’t think I could physically touch that man without wanting to stab him ninety-nine times with my pointy best friend. I had so much rage inside. So much injustice that I trembled with fury every time I felt him moving around, thanks to the link between us. The feathering around my ankle, the clinking of the chain, all had the power to boil my blood.
I’d managed to go through life completely oblivious to true anger. Sure, I’d had the odd explosion of words, the gossip sessions with girlfriends at school about some moronic teacher or idiot student, and I might have had a few run-ins with my parents and brother—as all people did.
But I’d never stewed in passionate vehemence before.
He’d done that to me.
He’d turned my happy little heart into one dripping with murderous contempt.
I was lucky, I supposed, that I’d turned to anger instead of self-pity. It was exhausting and maddening, and I wished I could remember how to stop being so damn mad and find calm, but now?
Ooooh, now, I was passed a pep talk and plotting.
My hand curled around my pen, wishing it was Kas’s neck. I honestly couldn’t get rid of the fizzing fury in my blood. I needed to hit him to get it out. I physically needed to mark him so he knew just how angry I was. How betrayed.
And that was the crux of my second problem with option two.
That plan all hinged on betrayal.
If I swallowed the rage inside me—which I didn’t even think was humanly possible at this point—and returned to his bed, I would have to hide this hate inside me. I would have to touch him gently, speak kindly, and do the opposite of everything I felt.
I’d already been nice to him.
I’d already attempted to use decency to win him over.
And look where that got me?
Around and around in circles. A month since I’d arrived. A month! Four long weeks since my family had heard from me. If I chose option two, I would betray not just myself but them too. I would be swallowing every nasty word he deserved and every lesson he needed to hear to be normal.
And...the worst part of option two, I wouldn’t just be betraying a man into believing I wanted him when nothing could be further from the truth, but I’d also run the risk of betraying everything I stood for.
I’d shown my heart was already weak where he was concerned. My body was already confused between passion and resentment.
Could I trust myself?
Can I honestly believe I won’t fall into the same trap and start wanting him in return?
I’d dreamed of him.
I’d dreamed of his tongue in my mouth and his fingers between my legs. I’d dreamed of us rocking together, straining together, coming—
“Argh!” I grabbed another piece of paper, just because it was blank and staring at me with far too many nasty possibilities, and tore it into ribbons.
And the worst part? Those dreams had been good. Better than good. Downright erotic, leaving me frustrated and wet and—
“We have a finite amount of supplies, Gemma Ashford. You should be more careful about not wasting them.”
My head snapped up. “You!”
He nodded, stepping into the games room with bare feet and long, wild hair. Unlike the past week when we’d seen glimpses of each other but no more, avoiding each other like silent uncivilized flatmates, he’d dressed.
His naked chest and muscular legs were now hidden beneath a black T-shirt and jeans.
Jeans?
Why did such an innocuous piece of clothing look so...wrong on him. No, not wrong. Far, far too good. He filled them out. His thighs pressed against blue denim, his knees indenting the dense fabric as he strode slowly toward me. The chain, buckled around his waist, slinked out beneath the hem of his T-shirt.
Which guest’s wardrobe had he raided to find such domesticated, normal clothes? And just how long would they last before the jeans were torn and the T-shirt was in shreds like the slacks and shirt from before?
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, standing before me with his legs braced and toes digging into the unlucky bear skin.
My eyes narrowed. “How could I possibly tell? You have the facial hair of that dead bear you’re standing on.”
His head cocked. “You’re saying I need to shave?”
“I don’t care what you need.” Bringing my knees up where I sat on the leather button couch, I huddled around my notepad and pretended to write something highly important. “Leave me alone.”