She jerks herself up and down, complaining and gripping my arm as though it would stop me from doing what I intend to do. Inside her glittered black purse, I find a small carry-in gun, a Glock 26  without a doubt, and my hardened gaze strays toward her face instantaneously.

"Where did you get this?" I ask, the mere fact that she has a gun already an alarm I shouldn't ignore no matter what she says next.

With that familiar impertinence of hers I've learned to enjoy, she answers me defiantly, "It's none of your business! I don't ask where you got yours, so do yourself a favor and stop caring, will you?"

I swear I wanna swat her ass so badly right now. She's become even more crass and undisciplined and smutty-mouthed now than I remember.

Sighing, I clamp my teeth tightly not to let her temper get to me. I was trained to keep myself cool and focused even when I'm facing death, so this shouldn't be hard, right? One little foul-mouthed sub can't tame an assassin and a Dom like me, can she?

The fuck she can! She's doing just that and I can't say it's new.

"Arabella, listen," I say calmly, letting out a short breath while looking evenly at her. "You can't go on living your life like this just to get back at me. Carrying this" — I lift the baby Glock in my hand with a pained expression — "will only put you in trouble. What if you shot Francesca today? Are you sure you could live with it knowing you've killed a person?"

Dread sweeps over her face, but just like me, she's quick in masking her immediate, unsolicited emotions. In fact, I'm beginning to think Arabella is a mistress of manipulation when she chooses to be, the kind of art earned from a long period of lies and secrets and verbal self-defense.

I can neither blame nor judge her. Our paths make us what we are.

"So the ol' bitch already tattled her big mouth, huh?" She strides closer toward me as she says this with a smirk. Crossing her arms on her chest, she tilts her head to one side and says, "Well, it looks like you care about her pretty much and maybe you're the one who wouldn't lose a sleep if I killed her, right?"

Of course, I'd be worried and crushed with guilt if that happened, but mainly because I'd be responsible for both of their destruction and not for the non-existent reasons Arabella has been busy imagining.

Also, I hardly believe that she was going to kill Francesca with this gun today. Unless she recently took off the magazine, which I assume she had no time for it, her gun weight suggests it's unloaded.

Discovering this, I snort. Her face crinkles in return.

"What? Do you think just because I spared your grandma I'm incapable of pulling the trigger?" she barks, but I don't respond because I know everyone is capable of pulling the trigger or pushing the dagger into one's flesh.

When pushed to the edge of no escape, everyone is capable of killing.

Lifting her chin high, which as a result makes her resplendent full breasts collide with my chest, she snaps to my face, "I'm going to kill any bitch you try to fuck, Adrian. Try me and you'll see what I'm made of. You might as well learn to become a eunuch while at it... unless you kill me first before I get to them."

I fail to hold my laughter, and yes, she's gone insane indeed, just as Francesca said. But in a way, I know Arabella is aware of everything she does. I just know it. She makes reckless moves, but she's not foolish. She's furious, too, driven with emotions for the most part, but I don't want to believe she's a killer.

Either way, I think it's better to keep her close where I can see and monitor her every move than to have her far away from here. I must do this to ensure her safety until I'm positive she can handle her life without me in the picture. Until I'm satisfied that my dark life doesn't taint hers any longer.

After that, I'll let her go.

"Give me my gun!" She grips my wounded bicep, trying to reach the gun in my hand that's flung to the opposite side.

"No!" I rise it higher above her, ignoring the sting of pain on my arm the more she jumps around scrambling to clutch it midair. "I'll keep it. You're not taking it back, are we clear, Arabella?" I snap seriously, and I'm surprised she recognizes the tone well enough to stop moving.

Although it's with so much reluctance in her pouty lips, her whole body seems to listen and obey.

Her mouth, however, does not, ever, listen to me without retribution.

"You're such a brute, you bastard! I hate you!" She jabs her fist on my arm, exactly where the cut went deeper into my flesh.

I make no sound, but I think she can read my eyes fairly well by now. Her hand drops down immediately as realization dawns on her, probably recalling seeing the wound on her secret visit this morning, and worry overpowers the anger in her now deep chocolate eyes that remain on my arm.

"Call room service if your hungry," I state, maintaining the composure and control I still hold against her. She doesn't respond. "And one more thing," I say before turning around to leave. "The fact that I'm not with you doesn't mean I'm a horny dog who fucks any bitch that crosses his path. I know you hate me, but don't invest too much of your time exacting revenge on me because you'll only lose yourself in the process."

Arabella doesn't say a word but I feel her wrath rising again through the harshness of her breath and the clamped balls of her knuckles. But I don't waste a second looking at her; I head straight toward the bathroom.

Behind me I hear her yelling, "You don't know anything! Yeah, I hate you so much and I'll make sure you suffocate to death, you heartless jerk! Do you hear me? I hate you!"

I slam the door behind me and pretend like I don't hear a word she says.

Like a sharp and firm samurai sword, draw your vigor from the brutal heat and pain; what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. One of the old masters, Sensei Kenji, who trained us in karate as kids used to whisper in my ear whenever I'd suffer strains, sprains, bruises, and once or twice broken bones.

I'm used to pain by now.

As soon I hide Arabella's gun, I stalk into the shower stall and let cool water beat off the stench of blood and sweat and all other physical fatigue off my body. I press my hands firmly against the tiled wall, my eyes wide open as I contemplate everything, thinking of no one but her.

"I hate him," I whisper into the pillow, hugging it tightly.

If only hating him was as easy as loving him. If only unbreaking my heart was as doable as saying these three baleful words that I don't even mean. If only I could turn back the clock and choose to reject his ten thousand dollars. Maybe my life wouldn't be as gray as it is right now if I could do all that.

But I can never hate Adrian Castle even if I want to. I tried but all it amounted to was immense pain and heartache. No matter how many times he breaks my heart, and smashes my shattered pieces, he's still the only one I love—the love of my life—and I don't know if I can pull through this life without him at all.

"I can't," I rip out the words painfully, drawing my knees higher toward my chest, and warm tears roll across my nose bridge. "I just can't." I sob quietly, persuading my stubborn heart to give up on him.

There's still a conscious part of me saying I should just pack and go anywhere else in the world but here, for by staying here, I'm attracted to more pernicious influence that may lead to self-destruction, just as Adrian said, or even worse.

But a big part of me refuses to listen. If it's about danger, I've come a long way since I had a taste of it. I can't let him win so easily. No, I won't allow him to tell me what to do while I'm the one whose heart is bleeding to death every day.

So I quit being the little Angel I'm certainly not and let the devious Arabella take charge. Crying myself to sleep won't solve my problems—I've learned that throughout the years of torments but I can't seem to heed the lesson as I should.

Let's see if he really doesn't want me anymore. I think to myself while snapping the wig off my head with a firm, determined look in my eyes. There's a way to find out. I throw it away, reach for the back of my dress and peel off the zipper with one sinful intent.

Gold tapware, glossy tiled walls, and spotless white sinks and bathtub enrich the vast bathroom I walk into. Not a shred of my attention is taken by the sight, however. My eyes are pierced through the wall of the shower stall, and my ears are focused on the drizzle that resonates melodiously against the tiled floor.

My heart rate speeds, my skin moistens, and too many nerves impregnate my belly, but I don't care about any of that. All I care about is to see if he's over me or not, whether I'm still the one he desires or not, and perhaps I'll follow his advice and quit this madness afterward.

Through the see-through glass wall, my eyes meet Adrian who's butt-naked in the shower. His chin rounds and his eyebrows knit together as he looks at me.

Caring so little about dignity and principles and any form of propriety I ought to have after a chain of rejection from him, I strip my bra open and let it fall. My gaze doesn't falter, and neither does Adrian's. He watches me keenly as I shrug my hips gently, letting the underwear slide from my waist up to my ankles.

And then I stand as naked as I was brought into this insufferable world in front of him, the dampened glass wall standing between us. The shower is still running, but he's focused on me, on my body, and I'm panting heavily with need, too much desire swirling in my hot blood knowing that it's just us in this bathroom.

Will he be able to resist me? I ponder while pushing the door open. Will he still find me beautiful the same way he chanted over and over again whenever he fucked or made love to me? I feel the cold tiles caressing my bare feet as I stalk in, and the door falls shut behind me.

___________

A/N: Hmmm, okay I officially think Arabella is crazy. But to be fair, there comes a time when we do the shittiest things just to find the closure we need, right? It's embarrassing but human. Whose POV would suit what's next, huh?