“I asked how many . . . whores . . . you brought to his bed. Was he even aware of what he was doing to them?”
He glances at Remington’s broad back, then he grabs me by the elbow and pulls me aside to the elevator bank. “You don’t get to have an opinion, Brooke. Remember? You left! You left when he was broken in a fucking hospital bed, Pete was babysitting your sister—in drug rehab—and I could barely pick up all the pieces of what your letter . . . your fucking letter . . . did to him! Something that you will never, ever even so much as comprehend! In case you have forgotten, Rem has a mood disorder. He needed to be pulled out of the fucking dark—”
“Hey.” Remington yanks him back by the collar and makes a fist as if he’s about to lift him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Riley jerks free and glares as he retucks his tie into his stupid new Boss jacket. “I was trying to explain to Brooke, here, that things weren’t as happy as they are now when she was away.”
Remy shoves a finger into Riley’s chest. “It’s done with. You got that?”
Riley clamps his jaw, and Remington rams his finger into his chest so hard, he forces him back a step. “You got that?” he demands.
Riley nods tightly. “Yeah, I got that.”
Without another word, Remington curls his hand around the back of my neck and steers me into the elevator.
But the entire elevator ride, my insides squeeze with hurt even though I try to reason with myself that I have no right to feel this way.
Without really seeing anything ahead, I stare at our penthouse as we walk in. It’s our new home. Our hotel rooms have always been like home, but they’re not my home. My home is far away. My home is now this man. And I need to accept the fact that loving him might break me. Over and over, loving Remington is going to break me. When he’s fighting and takes more punches than I can bear, I will break. When he’s tender with me and gives me all the love I don’t feel I deserve, I will break. When he has an episode, where his eyes go black and he doesn’t remember things he said or did . . . I will break.
“You like the room, little firecracker?” His body heat envelops me as he comes up from behind and tucks me into his body with his arms. I feel warm. Protected. “Want to hit the running trail when it gets dark?”
His lips graze the curve between my neck and collarbone, and the feather-touch sends a painful little ripple to my heart. I feel as if I’ve swallowed the entire garden full of searing-hot cacti as I pull up the collar of my shirt and turn.
“Did you fuck other women?”
Our eyes meet, and a familiar shiver of awareness runs through me as I stare into his face. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what he’s thinking.
“I realize I have no right to ask you.” I search deep into his blue eyes, and they search me back with equal intensity. “We broke up, right? It was the end of it. But . . . did you?”
I wait, and his eyes begin to twinkle.
He. Is. Actually. Grinning!
“It matters to you?” he asks cockily, one eyebrow high. “If I slept with anyone?”
The rage and jealousy bubble up inside me so fast, I grab a couch pillow and slam it into his chest as I explode. “What do you think, you fucking jerk?”
He grabs the pillow and easily discards it. “Tell me how much it matters.” The sparkle of mischief in his eyes only makes me grit my teeth harder, and I shoot another pillow his way.
“Tell me!”
“Why?” He deflects the pillow and comes after me as I start backing off, his smile full of amusement. “You left me, little firecracker. You left me with a sweet letter telling me, very nicely, to go fuck myself and to have a nice life.”
“No! I left you with a letter that told you I loved you! Something you hadn’t told me until I came back to you and begged you to tell me.”
“You’re so fucking cute like this. Come here.” He grabs the back of my head and pulls me into his arms, and it takes all my force to yank free.
“Remington. You’re laughing at me!” I cry wretchedly.
“I said come here.” He gathers me back into his arms, and I twist my head and shudder as I try to squirm free.
“Remy, tell me! Please tell me, what did you do?” I beg.
He pins me to the wall and sets his forehead on mine, his gaze completely territorial. “I like that you’re jealous. Is it because you love me? Do you feel proprietary of me?”
“Let go,” I breathe angrily.
He lifts one large, tan hand and cups my face so, so gently, I could be glass. “I do. I feel completely proprietary of you. You’re mine. I’m not letting you go.”