We Were One Once Book 1 by Willow Madison Page A

She’s been brazen and bold,
confident and cold. Any hints of natural submission have been
squashed. She’s been a pendulum, swinging from one extreme to the
next. This is a different extreme; she’s resigned and completely
pliant.
    When she has her bag
filled, she turns to me and doesn’t move—like she’s waiting for
instructions, like she’s completely at my command now. And this
pisses me off. I grab her arm in a tight grip, knowing I’m leaving
bruises on her arms. “Come on.” She doesn’t resist at
all.
    I grab both the bags of
clothes in my free hand, not letting go of her arm, squeezing a
little harder even. When we get to the front door, I stop her from
opening it by yanking her back to me. She doesn’t make a sound,
only looks up at me with the same resigned look. “Leave your keys.”
She fishes them out of her purse, not even trying to get loose from
my hand. She leans over to a table and puts them on it
quietly.
    I keep my grip on her all
the way down and out the building. We don’t say anything. I walk
her this way the two blocks to my car. She never even tries to
speak or move away, not even when I dump her bags in my trunk, not
even when I shove her down into the passenger seat and slam her
door, not even when I get into the car and drive her
away.
    I wanted today to be the
start of something more between us, but this is not how I pictured
it. I’d imagined making her an offer to jumpstart her modeling. I’d
wanted to give her a golden carrot of some sort, entice her to come
to me, get her to want to come to me. I’d made a plan to slowly knock down all her
resistance and make her completely submissive to me, not drag her
away like a whipped bitch from a pile of shit she made on the
floor.
    I haven’t done anything to
make her this submissive, and it’s really starting to piss me off.
I realize that I don’t even know where I’m heading. I pull over and
turn off the car. I don’t want to take her back to my apartment,
not like this. I want to dump her ass on the side of the road and
keep going. She remains sitting quietly with her fucking makeup bag
still on her lap, her hands still at her sides.
    “Do you have somewhere to
go, somewhere to stay?” I know the answer already.
    “No.” Her voice is flat.
It’s not weak, but it’s not her usual sensual deep either. I turn
to look at her. I know she’s lying to me. Why? She has two
apartments in her name. So why tell me she doesn’t have anywhere to
go?
    “Shit.” I hiss under my
breath through gritted teeth and start the car again. Goddamn shit.
I need a minute to think, and I can’t do it sitting in my car on
the street with fucking zombie girl. This is what obsession gets
you! Grandfather’s voice mocks me in a way he never did in real
life.

Seattle: Miles
Vanderson

    “Yes, Ingrid. That will be
all for tonight.” I dismiss the servant, watching as she avoids
knocking her head on the dining table as she stands.
    “Good night, Mr.
Vanderson.” She gives a quick bow of her head before bolting out of
the room.
    I don’t bother zipping up
my pants as I also stand and retire for the night. Ingrid’s
ministration to my needs was efficient, perhaps not very creative
or good, but hopefully it does the job to help me relax
somewhat.
    Closing the door on my
bedroom softly, I realize my hands are fists. The muscles
comprising my arms, shoulders, back are knotted and aching again. I
crack my neck side to side, trying to remove the yoke of tension
once more. My body has been on edge, a bundle of pent-up nervous
energy. It’s like I’ve stored up all my needs, worries, and
anxieties over the last three years in every nerve
ending.
    It’s no use though. I won’t
relax with the images I now have in my head.
    Gillian is living with a
man. My Gillian
shacked up with some scum of the earth, new moneyed… I breathe. “It
won’t do any good to go down this path again, Miles.” I say these
words out loud, talking myself out of the