But he didn't say it. Because arguing with Maddie was like arguing with a golden retriever on Viagra—she'd just keep bouncing back, tail wagging, humping your leg harder, tongue lolling, teeth bared in that manic grin completely unaffected by logic, consequences, or the word "no."
Except—hold the fuck up.
He didn't live in the Maxton mausoleum anymore. Hadn't for a week. Penthouse paradise, Melissa's black-card magic, Harold clueless as a trust-fund toddler.
So why the hell was he still jumping when that old bastard snapped?
So why the fuck was he still jumping through Harold's hoops like a trained circus animal?
Because you're broken in, that exhausted voice in his head sneered. Ten years of getting whipped into shape doesn't vanish overnight. Because if you flip him off now, he'll start digging—and he'll find the leash Melissa's got wrapped around your balls.
His phone buzzed again. Melissa.
