The first bracing gulp of fresh air slapped me sober and I was grateful. Grateful to be free of that throat strangling toxicity that was Jim Verraster and his hateful implications. For him to tie everything I was, and accomplished, into a sordid little knot was a low I couldn't swallow. F-ck him, and anyone like him. Hell, f-ck men in general--the straight ones, at least.

How simple life would be, how calm and peaceful the world, if only we could rid it of sex-crazed, d!ck-swinging, Neolithic men? Arms hugged around me for warmth, I turned just as he rolled through the doors.

"Great," I muttered, and flagged out my arm for a cab.

"Where are you going?" Tristan asked, catching my arm before I could disappear into backseat. The seriousness of his voice was etched in the lines of his mouth, eyes dark and fixed on me. My pulse scrambled in the heat of his gaze, so I covered it with the heat of my temper.

"Home," I spat, all venom, vodka and fury, heedless of the passing bodies on the street.

Tristan moved in closer, calm and hushed which only heightened my irritation. "Not now," he said. "Not like this. Do you want the Board asking questions?"

"F-ck you." I wrenched my arm free. "I don't care. I'm going home. Alone."

Shaking his head, he waved the cab aside and it pulled from the curb, sailing out into the busy street. Another fucking man, I seethed. To hell with the little woman and what she wanted. A second later and a black town car pulled up in its stead.

"Mr. Shade. Ms. Pierce." Harold, Tristan's driver, stepped out, tipped his hat.

"Home," Shade ordered, opening the door and nudging me inside. When I reached for the handle to shut it behind me, Tristan whacked my hand away and slid into the backseat.

"I'm not having you stay over," I warned, crossing my arms. Tristan shifted his eyes to me, elbow propped against the door, and said nothing.

Good, I thought. I wasn't in the mood to argue. Not now. Fighting would only escalate my ire and already I could feel the weight of furious tears building behind my eyes. I wasn't going to cry, I told myself. Not now. Not in front of him.

I was so busy concentrating on that fact, on keeping myself together, that I didn't even notice where we were until Tristan helped me out of the car and I found myself face to face with Neil, the porter.

"No," I shot an elbow into his side. "F-cking hell, Shade. Take me home."

"This is home," he said, gathering me against him, locking my arm between us. I could have fought him, if I wanted to. I could have yelled and screamed and made a bloody production right in the middle of Park Avenue's lobby. But I held my tongue, bit down on it so hard I could almost taste the salty tang of blood.

I held in my venom, my rage, until the elevator banked and we stepped out into his apartment, then, pushing from him, I spun and set it free. My hand caught him clean across his cheek and sent a flame jolt up my arm and straight into my soul. My palm sang, the skin tingling and for a second I smiled. Maybe there was something to this pain thing after all.

Satisfied I'd made my point, I moved to leave but he sidestepped and blockaded my path. So I raised my hand again when a look from him stopped me cold.

"Hit me again," he warned, "and I'll hit you back."

"I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" I seethed. "Or maybe I should just fall to my knees, huh? Whip out that c-ck and blow your mind, right here?" My fingers dug into the silk of his shirt, curled like claws.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he snapped, ripping my hands from him. Those arresting silver eyes of his sliced me straight through, like lasers, ripping through all the b-llish!t and bravado.

"I've worked so hard. So fucking hard but it doesn't mean a damn." I pushed at the wall of his chest, again and again. "My wagon gets hitched to you and all of a sudden I'm a second-rate nobody riding on your coat tails."

Baffled disbelief flashed-dazzling bone white-in is face, sympathetic understanding in his eyes. Both only angered me more. I could deal with his surprise, his temper, but not pity.

"A ghra," he sighed, reaching for me. I slapped his hands away.

"Don't touch me. Don't." But he reached for me again, anyways. My struggles were half-hearted and limp, and as those arms of his closed in around me something inside me broke. Shattered. I clutched at him for warmth. For strength, and poured myself empty on his shoulder.

All the while he stroked my hair, kissed my neck and held me tight. I didn't know how much I had needed something so basic, so simple, as comforting. All my life, I'd always been careful to be so strong. Untouchable. Vulnerability, a weakness I'd thought I'd obliterated ages ago when that little girl inside of me realized she had to grow up fast if she was ever going to be seen as anything more than a gender stereotype.

"Are you going to tell me what set that off?" he asked, peeling me back so he could clean up the ruin of my face with his tie.

"I can't believe I let him get to me." I wiped my fingers underneath my eyes, tears and mascara smearing the tips.

"Who?"

"F-cking Verraster." Rubbing my hands together, I exhaled heavily then let it all spew, pus from a rancid boil that had been growing inside my guts like a fetid child born from a decade of frustrated resentment. At some point during my retelling, Tristan found a bottle of Chianti, poured out two glasses. The pair of us sitting on the floor, resting against the back of the sectional.

"I always sensed the man was spineless, but I didn't figure him to be this stupid." Sighing, Tristan set aside his glass, gathered me into his arms, settling me across his lap. "You, Laura Pierce, are a force to be reckoned with. Never, never let anyone make you doubt that."

I combed my fingers through golden locks, searching him for any sign of falsehood but found only complete sincerity. "You really mean that?"

Tristan turned his face into my palm, pressed his lips there. Held. "It's your world, a ghra. I'm just living in it."

We held there for a moment before a shift happened, palpable as a door sealing shut, locking something behind his eyes.

"I'm feeling a bit peckish. How about I scrounge up something?" Scooting me off him, Tristan rose and was gone. While he hummed in the kitchen, I pressed a heel of my hand over my heart and rubbed away the sting of discovery.

I was in love with Tristan Shade. And what was worse-I knew he would never love me in return. Or at least, had no intention of ever trying. I hadn't minded when things between them us had been a simple, easy and casual sort of game. No emotional strings. No tethers to the past or promises for the future. Only the here and now, for as long as the here and now suited us both. At first knowing that he would never see me as anything more was only the tiniest nip at my pride, but now, as I saw the way he'd backed away, was a great deal more insulting. And infuriating.

Well, I thought as my temper sparked and bubbled within me anew, if he thought I would just be tossed aside when he grew tired of me, he had another thing coming.

The bastard.

Both of us were highly educated, financially sound and established on our own merit. There was no reason why I wasn't good enough to be his, or for him to be mine, exclusively and without an expiration date stamped on the matter.

Let the man try and walk away, I thought with a snap of fury. Just let the idiot try and see how far he got with his legs hacked off at the knees. He might be a canny negotiator, slick as a greased pig, but I was a woman of considerable skill, myself. And come hell of high water, I would have my man. As I heard him coming up the hall from the kitchen, it took all of my skill, instinct and control to bury the fangs behind a smile, sweet and silky with promise.

In his hands was a tray laden with figs, fruit, soft creamy cheeses, a small pot of honey and slices of crusty French bread. Settling back down next to me, Tristan draped the tray across his knees. Shirt unbuttoned, he cuffed the sleeves to his elbows.

"I thought a cheese plate would pair nicely with the wine. What's your mood? Sweet and savoury?"

"Sweet," I said, reaching for the curved stem of a dark cherry, and watched while he dressed a slice of bread in a smear of goat cheese, drizzle of amber honey and a couple of caramelized figs.

"So about my father's birthday."

Those hands stilled in their task, and he sighed. "Not this again."

"Yes, again." My eyes glinted, I saw the spark of them reflecting in the silver depths of his, like the glint of a sword sharpening for battle. "You're coming along, Tristan." I moved the tray of food from his lap, and between his legs I hooked my hands behind his knees and tugged him forward.

"Am I?"

"Yes." I nodded, straddling him. "It's written in our contract. A contract you signed, and love to quote at every twist and turn."

"And how," Tristan demanded, tucking his hands behind his head, "did you come to this conclusion?"

"So glad you asked." Reaching behind me, I unzipped the golden sheath of the dress and let my lace covered breasts spill free. Greedily he drank me in and I knew now was the time to employ Jacqueline's tequila-hazed advice from a few days ago:

I think you should take hold of his nuts and squeeze until he's at your mercy.

A delicious suggestion. And there was more than one way to apply pressure to a man's balls. Lifting the cherry to my lips, I skimmed that plump bit of fruit across my tongue, rolling it like a pearl in an oyster.

"Alright," he said. "You have my attention."

"After our little disagreement, I did some careful and decided re-reading. And although you are correct in that family gatherings are off the table, they do not, however, preclude the importance of residences." I popped a cherry into my mouth, savoured the burst of deliciously sweet flesh, and the way his brows furrowed on his beautiful face.

"Your terms were extraordinarily precise. We are to alternate on a weekly basis, from Monday to the following Sunday. Under no circumstances, are we to be separated unless during blacklisted weeks. A decision that can only fall into the hands of whomever is the respected host. As I have not put forth any period of blacklisting, on my end, you are therefore required to be present and accessible."

"Yes, but-"

"And," I raked my nails down the length of his torso, relishing the feel of that perfectly chiselled body tensing between my thighs, "if you care to notice, my father's birthday week just so happens to fall in line with my turn."

"Laura-"

"According to our contract," I continued, "we're to rotate residences. Your week, we share your place and my week we are to share mine. Therefore, it can be argued that if I am electing to reside in Ronan Estates for my allotted week, you are therefore required to be there with me. And in the hierarchy of importance, shared accommodations trumps your aversion to familial engagements."

He stayed quite for a time, mulling it all over. Then levered up, anchoring my hips in his large, capable hands. "You're taking some serious liberties."

At that I shrugged prettily, satisfied I'd backed him into a corner he had no room to wiggle out of. "If you want to be the one to breech-?"

"I believe this is where I quote your eloquently phrased, 'sue me'?" Those hands of his traveled up, fishing under lace to find ripe, supple, flesh.

"You could," I said, looping my arms around his neck, nibbling along the side of his jaw with my teeth. "But do you really want to be the one to admit you couldn't honor the contract?"

Silver eyes honed in, narrowed and that gorgeously sculpted mouth thinned though a hint of a smile flirted with the edges. In a whirl of movement-knocking over wine and scattering fruit-he rolled, dragging me beneath him, pinning me between hard floor and harder man.

"As I said, Ms. Pierce, a force to be reckoned with, indeed."