I know where she was, of course, because I cloned her phone’s location services with a simple remote install she’d never detect, and when I checked, I saw the dot that represented my little fox safely ensconced at Rae Everett’s apartment in Brooklyn all night long. That’s the only thing that kept me from flying off the f*****g handle—because if I thought she’d been at another man’s house, I might’ve committed a mass murder. What I did to her scrawny little neighbor would look like mercy compared to what I’d do if I found her in the arms of another man.
The thought alone makes me want to tear something apart with my bare hands.
I don’t share my belongings. Never have, never will. And Jillian Pierce belongs to me now, whether she’s accepted that fact yet or not. I don’t give a f**k if it’s
