Does he feel like a feral beast? Has that pure fury stripped away some of his humanity? I hope so. Civility is so overrated.
Adrenaline rushes through me, and I bring my knee up andkick him hard in the thigh. The impact sings up my own leg. He stumbles a little but keeps coming for me, his open palm flying for my chest. At the last second, I dodge it, but the heel catches me in the shoulder, sending me spinning in a half circle. Pain radiates bright and hot from my hip as it knocks into the stove.
Snatching up the pan, I hurl the hot stir-fry at him. He ducks the food and hot oil but isn’t fast enough to miss the back of the pot when I slam it into his temple. Blood trickles from his hairline, and he staggers for only a second before he’s hot on my heels again.
Excitement is a lethal melody in my veins, and I dart around the island, grabbing the expandable baton he has taped underneath. Snapping it open, I break it into two pieces and grip the handles, edging back toward the living room.
Malachi stalks me like the beast I compared him to, his nose flaring, his eyes hooded and tracking my every move. He grips the bottom of his hoodie and jerks it over his head, tossing it to the side, and my pussy spasms so hard, the shit feels like a contraction. The light-gray T-shirt clings to his wide shoulders and chest, and never have I wanted to beat the ass of a shirt before. But gotdamn, there’s a first time for everything.
For several long moments, we study each other, waiting to see who’s going to make the first move. The ferocity that marked the beginning of the fight has passed.
That was rage.
This is foreplay.
Malachi charges me, but at the last second, he feints left, blocks my swing with one arm, and wraps the other around my waist. But using a hook kick, I sweep his feet out from under him, and he hits the ground, taking me with him. We both roll, but in opposite directions, facing each other in low crouches. I still clutch the batons in my fists, and without removing my gaze from him, I toss both of them across the room.
Electricity arcs through me, from the soles of my feet, up myspine, over my scalp, and right back down. My breath whistles in and out of my lungs, and it’s a deafening rush of air in my head.
Malachi waits, as still as a statue. And stares at me.
But disgust doesn’t brighten his eyes like diamonds. Anger doesn’t burn there.
Fascination does. And fucking glee. The same glee I glimpsed on his face the first night I saw him. The night I saw him take a man’s life.
I called him twisted. And he is. Just like me.
And that makes him irresistible.
I slowly crawl toward him, and those lovely eyes flare before the dense fringe of lashes lowers, partially hiding his gaze from me. He sits back on his knees, but I keep coming to him. Keep crawling until I’m directly in front of him. Only then do I rise to my knees, too.
“You want to kill me,” I murmur, gently grabbing his hand and placing it around my neck. “Hurt me. Try it.”
His fingers immediately grip me.
And squeeze.
I softly gasp, arch into his hand, press deeper into that delicious hold. I don’t know what he glimpses on my face, but I feel absolutely fucking euphoric. The air I breathe is in his hands because I allow it, and that knowledge has me so wet, my thighs are damn near sliding against each other.
“You’re not even trying, Malachi,” I taunt, lifting my hand and covering his. “Come on and make me believe that you want my blood staining that black, beautiful soul.”
His grip tightens, and for a second, I can almost read his want—no, hisneed—to silence me. And crushing my throat under his fingers would accomplish that. Why? Or rather what? What did I say? Which of my words are goading him to that precipice?
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He snatches his hand away from my neck as if my skin singes his palm and fingers.
That snarl ricochets against my skull, joining the replay of all the words I’ve said. I can’t parse it. Not when one thing stands out too clear, drowning everything else out: the disgust threading his voice. But something whispers that it isn’t directed toward me. No. That’s all projected toward him.
I tilt my head, and though a latent sense of self-preservation urges me to back away from him, telling me that he has the power to hurt me like no other being on this rock, I remain where I am. Crowding him. Forcing him to look at me. Making him be near me. See me.
And staring into those bottomless blue eyes? It’s like peering into the abyss and having my soul reflected back at me. I want to cringe and cower from it. But another part of me—the part of me that craves to own all his secrets, his desires, to be his obsession—can’t look away.
Is it possible to hate as passionately as I want? Because I do.
He makes me weak bybeingmy weakness.
Andthatpart of me almost hates him.
“I don’t know what I’m talking about?” I repeat. “You called me a liar, and although we’ve established that is definitely one of my vices, I still take exception to that. So which part? About Abena using you as a pawn to get to me? I agree she’s not very imaginative, but—”
