Ravager bursts into the room, panting heavily, his eyes frantic. He’s holding the knife he took from me. His jacket is off but he’s wearing his pack again. His shirt is torn, exposing mottled bruises along his ribcage. Numerous cuts cover his arms,and his face is beautifully bruised where I kicked him. There’s plaster dust and ash in his brown hair. He looks half-dead and fully enraged, but he stops as the scene before him registers.
A ragged laugh bursts from his throat. “I should have known you’d get the best of him.”
“You told him to kill me.”
“I was trying to spare you from something worse,” he rasps, stepping forward.
I brandish my dagger, baring my teeth like a trapped animal. “Don’t come any closer.”
He throws his knife away recklessly and keeps advancing. Despite the weariness in every step, a feral joy illuminates his eyes. I haven’t paid much attention to his looks so far, but with that light shining in his gaze, he’s downright beautiful.
“Stop,” I hiss.
He doesn’t. Not even when I place the dagger—the one that used to be his—against his throat.
He crowds against me, all of his heat, his muscles, and his smell in my space. He’s sweaty, bloody, with hints of a spiced cologne that he probably applied this morning, which is barely holding up against the musk of the day’s labor.
“You stink,” I whisper.
Ravager ducks his face toward my hair. I recoil a little, but I don’t stab him in the jugular, which I consider a feat of great mercy.
“How do you still smell amazing?” he whispers.
“I don’t.”
“To me, you do.”
“Go away,” I breathe, but there’s no force behind the words.
“I thought he killed you.” He places his hand against my lower stomach, like he’s trying to make sure I’m still whole. Still here.
What is he doing? First he grabs my thigh and calls me gorgeous, and now...
What the fuck is happening?
My breathing turns light and tenuous as heat from his palm flows into my body. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.
The way he’s touching me is more shocking than violence, more insidious than a snare. It disarms me, tempts me with something I’ve been craving for much too long.
I can’t think of anything to say. I don’t know how to react. I only know that I like the gentle way his fingers rest against my shirt.
We’re both buzzing from the strenuous heat of conflict, our blood high and our hearts racing from exertion. That’s all this is—the afterburn of violence. Nothing more.
He must be thinking something similar, because his expression dims and his jaw tightens. He starts to lift his hand from my waist—but I cover his fingers with mine, renewing the contact.
Slowly I lift my lashes, raising my eyes to his, confirming what my actions just told him.
Something wakes in his gaze. The closest thing I can compare it to is the sun rising in the blue of his eyes. A light renewed, intensified.
His hand shifts, nudging up my shirt until his palm directly contacts my bare skin. I quiver at the touch, yet I don’t move away, even though I should, even though my brain is screaming at me tostop this, to go ahead and slit his throat like I should have done downstairs.
“Say the word, and we can fight instead,” he says. “Maybe I’ll even let you kill me.”
But I don’t speak. I bite my lip, and I shift the tiniest bit closer.
When his hand slides under my shirt, I don’t stop him.
His rough, calloused fingers travel upward along my skin until they encounter the underside of my breast. Since I’m not gifted in that area, I don’t usually wear a brassiere or corset. There’s nothing in the way, no restrictive garment to prevent his big, warm hand from covering my small breast completely.
