EWB

Marshall
I hate Valentine Tye.
I’ve hated him since we were ten years old. I hate everything he is, everything he stands for. Even the mention of his name gets my back up.
And when I see him?
My blood boils. My jaw clenches and my hands curl into fists. That’s how much I hate him.
I want to cause him pain. I want to hold him down and actually hurt him.
And if that’s not bad enough, that’s exactly what he wants me to do to him.

Valentine
I know what people think of me. I know what they assume. They all think I’m some spoiled rich guy who’s had everything handed to him.
They don’t know me at all.
Behind my carefully constructed walls is an emptiness so dark it scares men away. I like pain. I like being used. For some messed up reason, it validates me. I don’t need love or affection or, hell forbid, emotional attachment.
What I need is a man who hates me, a man who despises me.
A man like Marshall Wise.
Because never in a million years would he ever feel anything for me.
Right?