“I’ve missed you!” Poppy leans up and hooks her arms around the back of Wicked’s neck, only they don’t reach right around. It’s strange how two people who come from the same parents can be so contrastingly different. And I don’t mean that just in size or appearance either.

“Yeah, same here, Pop.” He releases her arms from around his neck, keeping his focus on me. “Go to the limo outside. We’ll meet you down there.” I watch as she bounces off through the doors, carrying the train of her gown with her. As each second passes that she’s gone, it becomes harder and harder to breathe. When she shuts the car door, Wicked takes a slow step toward me, closing the distance.

“You will listen to every fucking thing I have to say, Ruby.”

My mouth opens as fire rips through my veins. He may have my Papa on tap, but he will not have me. “You disappear for two weeks and think you can come back and boss me arou—” His hand flies to my mouth, backing me up against a wall. My head slams against it and he slowly separates my thighs apart. I look between his hand and his eyes, and back again. His skin smells of cigars and whiskey mixed with clean linen, and his body holds against mine like a brick wall with no escaping.

“I didn’t disappear. So let me tell you, principessa. You will listen to every word I say, because if you don’t?” His brows lift, and I watch as a cloud moves over his dark eyes and the corner of his mouth curves in a slow grin. I once thought I wanted to know what his smile looked like. When he first came, I thought about what it may look like or how it would make me feel. I often thought that seeing his smile would soften the features that were already so tough, but I was wrong. It only makes him seem… wicked. Gone is the man who fucked me in a way I thought dreams were made of.

I shove my face out of his grip, pushing him away. I didn’t expect him to move, but he does. Flipping open my clutch, I take out my compact mirror and fix my lipstick. When I find him in the reflection, I snap it closed. Something has changed since he’s been gone. I know that he isn’t that same broken boy who my father brought home with blood all over his hands, if he ever was that person. The boy who didn’t speak often, but when he did, he made me feel alive beneath him.

The boy who showed me what it was like to die while being touched.

He is no longer the boy who kind of stole my heart with his bloody hands.

He is the boy who tore it from me without my permission.