He moves, but Asher steps in front of him. “I’ll do it.”

I lift a hand. “I want Jason to do it.”

Asher freezes, and although I can’t see his eyes, the tightening of his jaw is enough to relay his displeasure.

Screw him.

He obviously doesn’t care about me. He made it clear he wants to harm me. If he thinks I’ll just sit here and watch, he has another thing coming.

Owen elbows Sebastian, and the latter remains frozen in place.

Bree laughs in a long, squeaky shrill. “Let the help do it, Asher. It’s not worth your time.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth laughs, and it’s obvious she’s trying to make up for the awkward tension in the air. “Jason can do it.”

“He’s not the help,” I hiss at Bree. “When you’re at my house, you respect everyone in it.”

Silence fills the hall. Everyone watches me closely, as if I’ve grown two heads. What? Isn’t that the right thing to say?

Bree releases an awkward laugh before she whispers, “Come on, Rei. You call him the help yourself.”

I…I do?

My fingers turn clammy as my hands strangle each other. No. She’s lying. I’m not snobbish or cruel enough to call him that.

“I’m fine to do it.” Jason advances forward.

Asher blocks his way. They’re similar build-wise, but Asher is taller so he blocks Jason’s expression.

He yanks me from my chair so fast, pain explodes all over my limbs.

My arms go around his neck for balance as my body fits into his arms easily. An unwelcome shiver dances down my spine. “Ever heard of being gentle?”

“Do you deserve gentle?” His hot breath forms goosebumps on the shell of my ear as he murmurs, “Monster?”

“Put me down,” I hiss.

“Only if it’s to throw you in hell, but it’s too early for that.”

I try to escape his brutal hold. One of his arms is around my midsection like a vise, and the other squeezes the bruise on my thigh.

Oh, God. That hurts like a bitch.

“Stay. Fucking. Still.” He enunciates every word with a cold edge.

And then he ignores everyone and takes me up the stairs.

“Let me go!” I hit his chest; it’s hard and stone-like. All I manage to do is hurt my fist.

His wide strides cut through the long hallway. Stainless marble and crystal chandeliers decorate the ceiling above us.

After a few moments of useless struggle, I realize I’ll only hurt myself. I huff and opt to choose my battles.

Still, I glare at Asher, letting him know my opinion of what he’s doing. Since he’s wearing the damned sunglasses, I don’t get to see his expression.

I pluck them away.

It’s his turn to throw a quizzical glance in my direction.

“What? We’re indoors. Why the hell are you wearing shades?”

He narrows his eyes the slightest bit but says nothing.

I look behind me, but no one followed us, not even Elizabeth. Maybe they all idolize him like the nurse in the hospital did.

That thought makes me pause.

He gave an extremely positive image at the hospital, and even earlier, he acted like some sort of a doting asshole by offering to carry me.

Am I really the only one who knows how screwed up in the head he is?

“Where’s your engagement ring?” he asks.

“An engagement ring?”

“You heard me, where is it?”

“I…don’t know.” And I really don’t. Now that I think about it, I should have one but I don’t.

Asher says nothing as we go into a large bedroom—scratch that, a princess bedroom. There’s a queen-sized bed with pink and beige sheets and a desk, on top of which sit countless pictures of me in a cheerleading outfit. Said outfit is hanging on the door of an open walk-in closet.

No kidding—it’s a whole walk-in. There are a few plaid skirts, white button-downs, and black jackets, on which there’s a golden symbol. My uniform from high school, I assume.

Private school. Of course I went to a private school. It fits the whole snobbish image.

Reina Ellis.

Captain of the cheerleading squad.

Doesn’t go out without makeup.

Heir to Daddy’s fortune.

And engaged to a jerk who couldn’t care less about me.

I really want to sit down with Old Reina and discuss her options. Surely she could’ve done better.

And yes, I’m judging myself. It’s my only option to vent.

“Let me go, Asher,” I spit out.

He throws me on the bed. I groan as my bruised hipbone hits the mattress.

What the hell? That hurts.

When I glare up at him, he gives me an indecipherable expression and places both his hands in his pockets. “You said to let you go.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” If you do, why the hell are you engaged to me?

“Might have to do with how much of a bitch you are.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I smile. “Did I steal your title, asshole?”

He pauses, head tilting to the side. “What did you just call me?”

“A-S-S-H-O-L-E.” I continue smiling, taunting him. “Do you want me to spell it for you again—”

My words cut off when he’s at my face, kneeling on the bed in front of me. His hand wraps around my throat like a shackle. He’s not squeezing, but the firm grip is enough to restrict my air supply and my thoughts.

A frightening chill forms goosebumps along my skin as I stare at his darkened, merciless eyes.

The sense of bravery I gained a few seconds ago evaporates into thin air. My shoulder blades snap together as if telling me I should be scared.

This is a scary person.

He’s fucking terrifying.

The need to run away from him hits me again, clawing under my skin and pumping in my blood.

“You seem to be taking your amnesia game way too seriously, so let me remind you of how it goes.” His thumb rubs my jaw like a lover’s caress when in fact it’s a Grim Reaper’s kiss.

It’s cold.

Everything about him is freezing.

My pulse roars in my ears like a distant thunderstorm.

He’s invading my space like a natural disaster, impossible to stop or prevent.

Still, I manage to choke words out. “You think this is a game? What type of person pretends to have lost their memories?”

“The type who doesn’t want people to know what they’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?”

“Shhh. Don’t talk.” He presses his thumb to my lips, and I can’t help the pulses taking flight under my skin. “When I speak, you listen.”

Despite the shivers of fear bursting through my system, my temper flares. Who the hell does this asshole think he is?

It takes effort, but I tell him point-blank, “You’re not my keeper, Ash.”

He pauses, and his hold loosens on my throat a little as if I’ve caught him off guard. The lapse lasts for a fraction of a second before his mask is strapped back on his face and his clutch tightens.

“It’s Asher. You don’t call me that. Ever.”

I want to taunt him, but that would be stupid with his hand around my throat this way. I’m seriously starting to think he’s a psycho, and psychos don’t think twice before suffocating their victims.