Her daunting, hazel eyes stare at me with a sinful intent as the distance between us fades. I know she's here to corner my inner beast, to punish me, and to see how far I can withhold my desire toward her just to keep the boundary between us bold and afloat.

She knows I love her still. The only truth I can never confess to her, however.

And truthfully, the beast in me is raging at the sight of her naked body—a pair of full, round breasts, a toned waistline like the middle of an ancient hourglass, and the curvature of her bottom made of wide hips—charging menacingly through the rippling water. She stops just before me, her gaze flaming and ardent.

I don't say a word. How can I? She takes the bull by the horns when her palms slide up from the ridges of my chest until they sit on my shoulders, holding me in place. Her glowing auburn hair, almost as deep as chocolate, begins to mat with water as she rises on her toes and her mouth falls on mine so gently, reminding me of her.

The taste of her lips is unforgettable, and so I devour them ravenously, much to my dismay. My hands enclose her waist, drawing her closer with possessiveness. It's very upsetting, the way I'm easily giving in to her ploy; how my cock effortlessly awakes by a simple touch of her skin against mine. I should strain but I don't.

Instead, I steal the control.

Silently, I slam her back against the wall and pin her hands above her head using mine. Excitement laces her thick breath, her eyes brightly bathed with a submissive yet challenging glow. Cool water washes over my bare back as I lean over to kiss her neck, and her head falls aside in response, her moan so sharp and rushed when my teeth sink into her skin.

Fuck—I'm hard.

She draws a plethora of kinks in my head. The playroom; we couldn't use it as we planned and I'd think of her each time I walked in there. I couldn't even bring another woman since the day Arabella set foot in my bedroom with a novice air and eyes rife with curiosity. Between her and me so many needs remain unfulfilled, and lots of promises unkept.

Is it the end? Again, my mouth tangles with hers dominantly, but thanks to my overworking mind, my eyes remain open.

Something on Arabella's body catches my attention. A switch in my brain flicks and slowly I break the kiss. Although my arms remain up pinning hers, my gaze skates all over her upper body that's covered with light and dark bruises on the side of her neck, and down her groin, and her stomach—the vital parts any fighter can recognize.

"Why push me away if you want me that much, huh?" Arabella snaps, her breasts shoring up and down in a rapid breathing rhythm. "Are you going to stop now?" Anger replaces the devious attitude that led her into this bathroom about three minutes ago.

"It's not my fault that you easily get fooled by appearances." I narrow my eyes intently, studying her body closely.

"You're such an asshole," she cusses through clamped teeth, and she seems confused.

But so am I.

"Are you gonna pretend that you don't want me?" she taunts.

I glance up grimly at her and say, "I don't want you, Arabella. No, I don't need you. You threw yourself at me and I'm horny as fuck—that's it." Her eyes grow firm, wide, and raged. "Turn around!" I snap with a mean voice, my mood altered in a heartbeat from the extreme sexual urges to the deep concern about her.

"Don't touch me, you bastard! Don't—"

Swiftly, I spin her around so she faces the wall, and then I bind her wrists together behind her back using my left hand. Seething noise seeps out of her lips as her body protests my grip, but I'm strong enough to hold her anyhow for as long as I want, shall I wish.

"Stand the fuck still, Arabella!" I bark pressing her tighter toward the wall.

With so much reluctance and defiance and profanities, she eventually gives in, not because she wants to, but rather because I force her to.

My eyebrows harden as I study the soft skin of her back, trailing my gaze from her shoulder blades to her ass. More Bruises, fading ones, but patent enough. It shows repetitive falls and blows. If I didn't know her better, I'd say she's an underground ring fighter or an abused wife, but I must rule that out by all means.

"Let me go, Adrian!" she bellows when I touch her marred skin; her body writhes hysterically to no avail as though she's finally aware of my discovery. "What are you looking at? What the fuck do you want, you bastard?" Shame melts her voice into a pleading cry.

I heard she's been training in some fighting academy back in Las Vegas. I know she's fond of boxing—she told me herself—and I thought it was a harmless hobby she picked up to stay fit and not to be battered like this. My breath quickens at the thought of everything she's been through since I kicked her out of my life.

Is this my fault too?

"These bruises," I finally speak in a rushed voice, "how did you get them, Arabella?"

I can tell how, but I need affirmation.

Every muscle in her body stiffens and she moves repeatedly so that I let her go. But I don't. I want to know what exactly she's been doing to herself. I want to understand the amount of damage I've caused to her because of the one hard decision I made for her safety.

I know it's my fault.

I could burn in the pits of hell for ruining her life but it doesn't mean I don't care what's happening to her.

I'll always care.

"I'm telling you no shit, Adrian! Let go of me!" she demands, light sobs lacing her voice and I realize whatever happened since our "break-up" must've been excruciating for her both physically and mentally.

Just how exactly does she deal with her pain, though? It terrifies me to find out.

Guilt settles heavily in my chest. I think I've shattered this woman, and all the while I wanted nothing but to pick her broken pieces together when I first met her. In a way, I'm worse than Richard, her fucktard ex, and my mother was right: I destroy everything I touch.

You're indeed your father's son! She yelled at me when I confined her in the rehab without blinking an eye.

She claimed I remind her of my heartless father, the same father I know nothing about. Her words intrigued me—she never talked shit about the sperm donor who aided in bringing me and my brother to life before. Not even once. But I chose to believe it was the heroine talking, yet curiosity won me over time.

As though I'm paralyzed by remorse, I let Arabella slip away from me. Sniffling, she stands at the apex of the bathroom, drying her tears. Water beats the floor between us, but the melody doesn't blur the sound of Arabella's cry of pain and anger and need—the need to have her heart unwounded.

"You know that you're the worst thing that has ever happened to me, right?" she barks acidly, and I selfishly hope she's speaking the contrary to her true feelings.

A foolish wish of a losing man.

"I wish I never met you, Adrian Castle." Her words seep out like venom that spread so quickly in my blood. "I hope you suffer tenfold for what you're doing to me and I'm gonna watch it right here when it's your turn, you sonofabitch! I'll hurt you myself if that's what it takes. No, I'll kill you! Just wait and see! I'll make you pay for this! For every humiliation. For every teardrop. YOU'LL PAY FOR IT ALL!"

It's her last threat—the one that sends chills down my spine—before she rushes out of the bathroom as naked as she has been the whole time, leaving me standing almost thoughtfully while I'm light-headed and lost and freaked by emotions I never knew existed until I met her.

She's my first everything.

And probably my last.

When I return to the bedroom, Arabella is lying on one side of the bed like a fetus in the womb; her back faces me. She's wearing the only T-shirt I have in the wardrobe, a white V-neck, and all I imagine is our life together as the mundane married couple I thought we could be when I carelessly proposed to her.

But there can never be ordinary with us. It never had been from the very beginning. As I told her before, she easily gets fooled by appearances.

I'm exhausted but sleeping has been a luxury I can no longer afford. So I fix the duvet upon her, even though I'm sure she's still awake and angry, listening to my every move. When my phone buzzes, I grab it and leave the room wearing boxer briefs and a bathrobe, ready to proceed with another pressing matter at hand.

"Schmitt agreed to an audience," says Glynn, an old contact from Germany. "He'll meet you tomorrow. Same place. Same time."

"I see." I pull a chair behind my desk and sit.

"If you don't mind me asking, " he goes on. Always curious, Glynn. "Are you...by any chance...returning to the Pentagon?"

I flip my computer open before replying, "The Pentagon never recruits back those who went rogue, does it?"

It wipes them from existence. I'm just an exception to be alive; a topic for another day.

Glynn laughs uncomfortably and I imagine his double chin jiggling as he does it. "That's true," he admits and asks no more.

I end the call.

What I have with the Pentagon is what is known as unfinished business.

He can't even sleep by my side. He really doesn't want me close and the sooner I accept it the better. Tears burn my eyes but I refuse to cry. Not anymore. I should remind the naïve, needy girl in me that I didn't come to New York with a wish to rekindle the fire of romance that never existed.

Yeah, it never did. It was all in my head.

Men like Adrian, as dark and hot as a Prince of hell, are probably incapable of loving. Or maybe they can love at some point, but they neither live for love nor remain in love forever. It was simply an experiment he had on me, which failed miserably—so I try to believe, and maybe it'll hurt less.

I hug myself tightly, letting the truth sink in even when the scent of his cologne overpowers my senses as everything surrounding me at this moment is his. The bed, the covers, the shirt and boxer briefs I'm wearing, and even the air I breathe—carry a small bit of him. I see and feel him everywhere.

It got to stop!

Will it, ever?

When I wake in the morning—I don't know when exactly I fell asleep but surely I was alone in bed—I hear the shower running from the bathroom. The other side of the bed is as neat as it's been since last night. Adrian's gun is laying on the nightstand as a reminder that he confiscated mind and I know exactly what to do with it.

I leap out of the bed.

There's breakfast on the kitchen table when I round myself to wash my face in the sink about two minutes later. I'm starving but I have no time to eat. I've already put on my dress, heels, and an oversized, brown trench coat that I found in Adrian's wardrobe. With that, I leave his suite as soon as I can.

It's a whole new dimension when I step down the lobby with ordinary people lurking on and about in their expensive attires. Thin, summer air fills my lungs. I look shabby but no one in a big city as New York would have time to spare on a makeup-less face with unruly hair framing it unsophisticated.

I stand outside restlessly waiting for a cab. I don't want Adrian to catch me.

But out of the blue, I hear, "Excuse me," from the man in a casual peacock blue suit who's been on the phone a few steps away from me, probably waiting for a valet to bring his Ferrari or something.

I'm leery about last night but I hold my self-control in check and glance up at the taller figure than mine, the stature slim but fit enough to do justice on the white V-neck tightening his not-so-wide chest beneath the unbuttoned suit jacket.

"Yes?" I respond confidently.

I'm just a plain Arabella here. I'm no longer the sexy blonde with blood-red lipstick and smoky eyes from yesterday.

"I know this is random and cliché but...do I know you?" Turquoise blue eyes, the same color as the summer sky on the beach, gaze down at me in a narrowed, contemplative fashion.

I cock my reared head aside, catching a proper glimpse of him. As a tiny smile spread on his cleanly shaved face, I quickly refresh my memory and brew a small laughter of recognition.

What a small world!

"Ellington Powell," I state his name exactly as I recall.

Mirth manipulates his slim, facial features. "Arabella, right? Lincoln's older sister," he comes back rather dramatically, proud of his genius memory.

"Ara please," I correct him kindly, suggestively, with a bigger intention of keeping my full name away from anyone else's lips.

Foolish, I know. I'm a fucking goner!

"As you wish. It's hard to deny a lady's request." An interesting foreign accent bleeds through his fluent English.

We share a laugh, equally surprised to see each other, of all the places, here in the Hotel Continental at the heart of NYC, so early in the morning.

A sleek convertible pulls over before any of us could add a word. Not a Ferrari, but a blue Lamborghini that I think befits his age and looks fairly well.

"Going somewhere?" he asks as the valet hands him his keys.

"Yeah. At Roosevelt's Hotel." My phone buzzes in my purse and I know it's Adrian calling.

I took his gun.

I snuck out without saying goodbye.

To spare myself from his wrath, I ignore the call cryptically.

"Need a ride?" the blue-eyed blonde asks me, a pearl white smile stark with his flawless fair skin.

He's looks like a model.

"Uh, um...yeah." I could use him for my quick escape.

"Good. Hop in," he offers with a charming, million-dollar smile and he's not exactly as I remember.

Obnoxious and self-absorbed. That's the impression I had of him. Not this charming and amiable and gorgeous too.

"Thanks." I follow his ladies-first gesture; he's holding the car door open for me.

Ellington Powell is the owner of Hi-Five, the gaming company that bought Jake's Survival game idea. Although I've met him only once, it's not easy to forget his face as someone with a big role to play in my brother's career. Not that it matters or anything, but I'm honestly surprised that he remembers me at all.

_________

A/N: At the scale of ten, how much do you hate Adrian? Haha I think I'm still at 4. I know I'm late but, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!