Chapter 66

Marshall's POV

The door slams behind us so hard the whole room rattles, and before I can even get a full breath in, a vase comes flying at my fuckin' head.

I duck, shoulder hitting the wall, and it smashes behind me, glass spraying across the floor and under the table while Leila stands there in that red dress, breathing hard, hair fucked up, face flushed like she's already looking for the next thing to launch at me.

I barely get turned back around before she grabs a glass off the side table.

I turn back on her, already yelling before I even get my feet right "You've fuckin' lost it Leila, stop throwing shit at my head!"

She throws it anyway.

I move sideways just in time, and it cracks against the brick behind me hard enough to make my jaw clench.

She stands there breathing hard, eyes wild, chest moving like she's not even close to done.

"You dragged me out like I'm some damn pet!" she screams, chest moving hard "You don't fucking own me Marshall, I'm not one of your possessions"

I step toward her, fists tight, every bit of control I had left already hanging by a thread "You were acting like a fucking slut Leila, standing there begging for every asshole in that place to look at you, don't stand here acting like you didn't love it"

Her face changes, and I know I hit low, and for half a second I almost care before the anger eats it.

She grabs a book off the table and hurls it at me before I can say anything else, and it slams into my chest, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to piss me off all over again because she's looking at me like she wants me worse.

"You can't fucking stand it, can you?" she spits, stepping toward me instead of away like a sane person would "That people were watching me, that for five seconds the whole world didn't revolve around you"

My fist hits the wall beside her before I even think, brick scrapes across my knuckles, sharp and hot, and the sound cracks through the room.

She doesn't flinch, not even a little.

That pisses me off more.

"Stop throwing shit!" I snap, pulling my hand back, skin already split, blood starting across the scrape "You keep pushing me, keep fuckin' testing me, thinking I'm just gonna stand here and take it?"

She laughs, mean and cold, eyes moving from my hand back to my face "You dragged me out of there like I'm one of your fucking groupies, that's what kills you isn't it? You can't control me"

"This isn't about control"

"Bullshit"

I step closer, chest tight, hand throbbing, head still hot from the club, from her mouth, from every fuckin' thing she said where people could hear it "You loved it, every second of it, showing off, getting looked at, feeding off it like you needed it"

Her mouth twists into that ugly little smile she gets when she knows she's about to make it worse "Yeah? Maybe I did, maybe I liked watching you squirm, maybe I loved seeing you lose it, knowing I'm the one that gets under your skin, maybe I fuckin' thrive on it"

That snaps whatever restraint I've got left, and I grab the lamp off the table, throwing it across the room with everything I've got.

It smashes against the floor, ceramic breaking apart, the shade rolling sideways, cord dragging behind it across the floor.

She looks at the lamp, then back at me, and her smile gets wider.

"You think this is a fucking game?" I step toward her, voice loud enough that my throat scrapes "You love fucking with me, don't you? You get off on pushing and pushing and seeing how far I'll go before I snap"

She shoves me hard in the chest.

I barely move.

She does it again, harder this time, both hands flat against me "You think I'm scared of you? You think you're the one holding all the cards here? You'd fall apart without me if I left, and you fucking know it"

I grab her waist and pull her into me, too fast, too rough, and her back hits the wall before either of us can pretend this is still under control.

She doesn't flinch.

She just stares at me, eyes locked on mine, breathing hard, daring me to say the worst thing in my head, and because I'm pissed enough to be stupid, I do.

"The only way you're leaving me is in a fucking box" my grip tightens before I can stop it "You're not going anywhere"

The words sit there, ugly as fuck, and I should take them back, but I don't, because some fucked up part of me means it, not like I'd ever hurt her like that, but like I can't picture a version of my life where she walks out and I just let her, not now, not ever.

Her smile changes, and I know right away I gave her something she can use.

"Hope that box is big enough for two" she says, voice low now, eyes on mine "Because you wouldn't survive a fucking day without me Marshall"

I hate that my hand tightens on her before I can stop it, hate that she catches it, hate that she knows exactly how true it is.

My hand comes up to her face before I can stop myself, fingers at her jaw, not soft, not gentle, just needing her to stop talking before she finds another place to stab.

She grabs my wrist, and for one second I think she's going to shove me off.

She doesn't.

We stand there breathing at each other, broken glass everywhere, my blood on my knuckles, her lipstick smudged, her body pinned between mine and the wall, and the worst part is I still want her, right now, like this, in the middle of all this fucked up shit.

I kiss her because anything I say next is gonna be worse.

She shoves my chest for half a second, hard enough to push me back, then grabs my shirt and yanks me right back in.

The kiss is nasty, messy, teeth and anger, her nails digging into my neck, my hand in her hair, both of us still fighting with our mouths because the words already went too far.

I pull her hair enough to tip her head back, and she makes this sharp little sound against my mouth, and I hate that it goes straight through me, hate worse that I want more of it.

I kiss her harder anyway, because I'm pissed, because she's pissed, because neither of us knows how to stop once we start swinging.

When I pull back, her lips are swollen, her breath is rough, and she still looks like she wants to slap me and drag me closer at the same time.

"This isn't over" she says, voice shaking with anger, not fear "It's never fucking over"

I lean in until my mouth is close to hers again, hand still in her hair, other hand tight at her waist "Damn right it's not over, we're never gonna be fuckin' done"

Her eyes stay on mine, and I can still hear glass shifting under my shoe, still feel my knuckles burning, still taste blood where she caught my lip.

The room is wrecked, glass under my shoe, blood on my hand, her mouth still too close, and neither of us moves away because that would mean one of us finally learned something.