Few people had ever seen Dawg really mad. Crista had only heard of it,
and she had decided long ago she never wanted to see it.
“You’re lying.” Cold, brutal certainty filled his voice.
She was already too pissed off to take that one silently. Her hand lowered from her lips as her gaze raked over his body with heated memories and fiery anger.
“You know better,” she sneered. “You were falling down drunk outside of town the night you buried your
parents, Dawg. How do you think you got home? I brought you home, and you spent the night screwing
me. All night,” she cried out. “Before you told me exactly how those Neanderthal bastard cousins of yours were going to fuck me. Where and how, and how long.”
She hated the fear and the pain and the fist-sized lump that tore at her chest every time she remembered.
By God, if he was going to blackmail her into his bed and sneer at her attempts to protect her heart from him, then he could hear the truth.
“Don’t worry, Dawg,” she spoke in ragged bursts now, just trying to find the breath to sustain her through the rage. “You don’t have to worry about the one that got away. Because she never got away from
anything but the foursome you seemed determined to force her into.”
She stepped back, fear and panic raging through her body with the same force, as eight years of pent-up
anger finally flowed free.
Escape. She needed to get away from him. She needed to run, just as she had before, just as far away from him as she could get.
“Touch that fucking door, and I’ll have you arrested in an hour flat.” His gaze smoldered with anger now.
Oh, this wasn’t the Dawg she knew. The Dawg she knew was unaffected, playful, cynical. He didn’t
become enraged, and he sure as hell wasn’t tormented. Which was exactly how he seemed now.
He paced into the kitchen, jerking another beer from the fridge before uncapping it and tilting it to his lips.
In two long draws, he emptied it. A second later it shattered as it hit the wall.
Crista flinched violently, staring at the dark paneling across the kitchen, bits of glass clinging to the dampness a small amount of the liquid had left. Dawg rubbed his hands roughly over his face before
pushing them through his hair and dislodging the leather thong that held the loose ponytail at the nape of his neck.
“Did I rape you?” His voice was unemotional, but his eyes weren’t. They seethed, darkening in spots,
lightening in others as he stared at her from across the room.
“You didn’t rape me,” she gritted out, there were times when she wished she didn’t have such an aversion to lying.
“What happened?” His lips were a thin, furious line, his expression rigid.
Crista shook her head wearily. “Dawg—”
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“What. Happened,” he bit out again, his voice harsher, icier.
“You were drunk. I brought you home. We had sex. End of story.”
“How?”
“What?” She watched him warily now, her stomach knotting in tension at the tone of his voice. It was
hoarse, brutal.
“How did we have sex?” he repeated, his chest moving harshly, nostrils flaring as his expression seemed
to grow colder.
“The usual way?” She retreated an additional foot.
His gaze sharpened at her movement as his lips twisted in contempt. “I didn’t rape you then; I won’t do it now,” he rasped. “Now answer me. How?”
“I answered you.” Her fingers tugged nervously at the bottom of her shirt as the air filled with dangerous tension.
“You were a virgin.” It didn’t sound like a question.
Crista nodded slowly.
“I took you.” He swallowed tightly at that point. “I took you hard.”
Did he remember? He didn’t appear to, yet he was right. He had taken her hard, and she had loved it.
Crista nodded again. She began to shake.
“I fucked your ass!” His lips curled back in an enraged snarl as his
and she had decided long ago she never wanted to see it.
“You’re lying.” Cold, brutal certainty filled his voice.
She was already too pissed off to take that one silently. Her hand lowered from her lips as her gaze raked over his body with heated memories and fiery anger.
“You know better,” she sneered. “You were falling down drunk outside of town the night you buried your
parents, Dawg. How do you think you got home? I brought you home, and you spent the night screwing
me. All night,” she cried out. “Before you told me exactly how those Neanderthal bastard cousins of yours were going to fuck me. Where and how, and how long.”
She hated the fear and the pain and the fist-sized lump that tore at her chest every time she remembered.
By God, if he was going to blackmail her into his bed and sneer at her attempts to protect her heart from him, then he could hear the truth.
“Don’t worry, Dawg,” she spoke in ragged bursts now, just trying to find the breath to sustain her through the rage. “You don’t have to worry about the one that got away. Because she never got away from
anything but the foursome you seemed determined to force her into.”
She stepped back, fear and panic raging through her body with the same force, as eight years of pent-up
anger finally flowed free.
Escape. She needed to get away from him. She needed to run, just as she had before, just as far away from him as she could get.
“Touch that fucking door, and I’ll have you arrested in an hour flat.” His gaze smoldered with anger now.
Oh, this wasn’t the Dawg she knew. The Dawg she knew was unaffected, playful, cynical. He didn’t
become enraged, and he sure as hell wasn’t tormented. Which was exactly how he seemed now.
He paced into the kitchen, jerking another beer from the fridge before uncapping it and tilting it to his lips.
In two long draws, he emptied it. A second later it shattered as it hit the wall.
Crista flinched violently, staring at the dark paneling across the kitchen, bits of glass clinging to the dampness a small amount of the liquid had left. Dawg rubbed his hands roughly over his face before
pushing them through his hair and dislodging the leather thong that held the loose ponytail at the nape of his neck.
“Did I rape you?” His voice was unemotional, but his eyes weren’t. They seethed, darkening in spots,
lightening in others as he stared at her from across the room.
“You didn’t rape me,” she gritted out, there were times when she wished she didn’t have such an aversion to lying.
“What happened?” His lips were a thin, furious line, his expression rigid.
Crista shook her head wearily. “Dawg—”
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“What. Happened,” he bit out again, his voice harsher, icier.
“You were drunk. I brought you home. We had sex. End of story.”
“How?”
“What?” She watched him warily now, her stomach knotting in tension at the tone of his voice. It was
hoarse, brutal.
“How did we have sex?” he repeated, his chest moving harshly, nostrils flaring as his expression seemed
to grow colder.
“The usual way?” She retreated an additional foot.
His gaze sharpened at her movement as his lips twisted in contempt. “I didn’t rape you then; I won’t do it now,” he rasped. “Now answer me. How?”
“I answered you.” Her fingers tugged nervously at the bottom of her shirt as the air filled with dangerous tension.
“You were a virgin.” It didn’t sound like a question.
Crista nodded slowly.
“I took you.” He swallowed tightly at that point. “I took you hard.”
Did he remember? He didn’t appear to, yet he was right. He had taken her hard, and she had loved it.
Crista nodded again. She began to shake.
“I fucked your ass!” His lips curled back in an enraged snarl as his
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