Page 119 of The Toy Maker

I buried myself in my work, letting the steady hum of the drill drown out the roaring crowd outside.

It wasn’t hard to be the man people expected me to be—the man who fucked without feeling, who kept things easy and disposable.

Until Tara.

Until the way she looked at me made my chest ache in a way I didn’t want to name. Until the sound of her laughter settled in my bones, until the idea of her walking away felt like a slow death.

But before Tara, there was Anna.

And Anna had ruined me first.

I thought I had moved on, thought I had hardened myself enough that she couldn’t get to me anymore. But when Kitty knocked on my door the other night, everything crumbled.

Anna was hurt.

And I needed to be with her.

But my cock was already buried in Tara’s throat.

Shame twisted in my stomach at the memory. Anna had never loved me, not really. Not unless she had her hands wrapped tight around my strings, controlling every movement, every decision, every breath.

Her love had been conditional, suffocating, like a chain around my throat. But Tara…

Tara made me feel something else entirely. Something terrifying. Something whole.

I shook away the thought, forcing my focus back to the present. The moans filtering through the walls of my workshop grew louder, grating against my nerves. I could almost tune them out if I concentrated.

Almost.

Then came the frantic knocking. It was probably Kitty, returning with a vengeance. She could pound the door until her fists bled. I wasn’t watching Tara with Sam. Even my masochism had limits.

“I’m busy,” I called flatly.

“You open this fucking door, or so help me, I’ll kick it down and then put my foot up your ass!” the voice on the other end shouted.

That wasn’t Kitty.

I marched to the door, ready to rip into whoever was stupid enough to piss me off, but the second I swung it open, the words died in my throat. Three familiar faces waited in front of me—two filled with worry, and the other unconscious.

Time slowed as Ethan rushed past me with Tara cradled in his arms. The story tumbled from Jade’s lips, but I barely heard a word.

“Is she—” I stumbled over my own thoughts.

“Unconscious,” Jade confirmed. “That idiot choked her.”

My fingers curled into my palms, my gaze refusing to settle on Tara’s limp body.

She was dangling in the arms of my supposed best friend, a better man, and a dull ache ran down my spine.

I turned and stormed out, ready to find the bastard responsible.

Love, the pain in the ass that it was, had caught up with me.

And this time, there was no running from it.

FORTY

How doyou confront a friend who may have orchestrated your strangulation? Do you let the fury rip through you like wildfire, or do you bite it down, bury it under wit and charm, and pretend it never happened?