"Maybe I want both."
Fuck.
"Emilia." I frame her face with both hands, make sure she's looking at me. "If we do this, it's not part of The Hunt. It's not because I caught you, or because you surrendered. It's because you want it. Because you choose it."
Understanding flickers across her expression.
"Are you asking for consent or waiting for me to beg?"
"I'm asking for honesty." My thumb brushes across her cheekbone. "Tell me what you want."
She's quiet for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with each breath. I can feel the heat of her skin through the soft fabric of her dress, can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"I want to forget," she finally says. "Just for tonight. I want to forget about Troskoy and revenge and being alone for six years. I want to feel something other than rage."
The raw honesty of it does something to my chest.
"And you think I can give you that?"
"I think you already are." Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, until her fingers find the edge of my mask. "Can I?"
I nod, and she slowly peels away the red silk.
Without it, I feel exposed in a way I rarely allow. But she doesn't flinch from what she sees. Instead, her fingers trace thescar that cuts through my left eyebrow, the evidence of a knife fight from years ago.
"You're covered in violence," she murmurs.
"So are you."
Her lips curve into something that's almost a smile. "Maybe that's why this feels right."
Then she's kissing me again, and this time I don't hold back.
My hands find the zipper of her dress, slide it down slowly. The midnight blue silk pools at her feet, leaving her in black lace that makes my mouth go dry.
She's beautiful. Scars and curves and fierce determination wrapped in pale skin.
The scar across her chest is raised, angry even after six years. I trace it with my fingertips, following the path the bullet took.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
"Not anymore. Not physically." She watches my face. "Does it bother you?"
"No." I lean down, press my lips to the center of the scar. "It's proof you survived. Proof you're strong enough to take everything back from the man who tried to erase you." I return my mouth to hers, hungry and desperate to drink her in.
"Bedroom," she breathes.
I lift her again, I'm starting to like the weight of her in my arms, and carry her through the suite to the massive bed that dominates the bedroom.
When I lay her down on the dark bed, she looks like some kind of vengeful angel. Red hair spread across the pillows, pale skin against black sheets, eyes burning with want and something deeper.
I taste the salt of her skin as my lips linger on that scar, a jagged reminder of everything she's endured. Her shiver runs through me like electricity, and I pull her closer. My hands slide down her sides, mapping the warmth of her body beneath that black lace.
She's alive under my touch, fierce and unyielding, and it awakens something primal in me that I've kept locked away for too long. I lift my head to meet her eyes, those depths pulling me in, and she nods once, a silent permission that unleashes the restraint I've been holding onto.
My fingers hook into the straps of her bra, easing them down her shoulders with deliberate slowness, savoring the way her breath hitches. The lace falls away, revealing her to me fully, and I can't help the low growl that escapes my throat.
She's exquisite, her breasts soft and inviting, nipples hardening under the cool air of the suite or maybe just from the heat building between us. I cup one in my palm, thumb circling the peak, and she arches into my hand, her head falling back against the wall with a soft gasp that sends blood rushing south.
