“Don’t,” he said quietly, setting the tablet down with deliberate care. “Don’t do that.”
“Or what?” I shoved him again, harder this time, needing any reaction besides that calculated indifference. “You’ll finally acknowledge I exist? You’ll stop pretending I’m furniture you can ignore?”
“Cassandra—” His voice carried an edge now, dangerous and sharp.
I shoved him a third time, and that’s when he moved.
One second, I was standing, hands pressed against his chest. The next, he’d caught my wrist in an iron grip, spun mearound, and slammed me against the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
The cold surface bit into my back through the thin fabric of my shirt. His body caged mine, one hand still wrapped around my wrist, pinning it above my head. The other braced against the wall beside my face, trapping me completely.
“I warned you,” he said, his voice low and rough with something that might have been anger or restraint or both. “I told you not to push.”
We were inches apart. Close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his gray eyes, could smell whatever cologne he wore mixed with something sharper—adrenaline, maybe, or the same barely leashed violence I felt thrumming through my own veins.
“What are you going to do about it?” The words came out breathless but defiant. A dare wrapped in challenge.
Something shifted in his expression. The control he wore like armor cracked just enough for me to see the truth underneath—he wanted this as much as I did. Wanted to break whatever careful distance we’d been maintaining. Wanted to cross the line we’d both been dancing around for three weeks.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, and then his mouth was on mine.
Not gentle. His lips crashed against mine with hunger that felt like violence, like he was trying to consume everything I’d been holding back. His hand released my wrist only to tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, angling my head exactly where he wanted it.
I gasped against his mouth, and he took the opening, tongue sliding past my lips with the kind of confidence that said he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t need permission. His other hand found my waist, gripping hard enough to leave marks, pulling me flush against him until there was no space left between our bodies.
I clawed at his shirt, buttons popping under my desperate fingers. Wrapped my legs around his waist because standing wasn’t enough, because I needed to be closer, needed more of whatever this was. He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us, and pressed me harder against the wall.
His hands were everywhere—my hair, my waist, sliding up my ribs to brush the underside of my breast through the fabric. Each touch sent electricity racing along my nerves, building something hot and desperate and completely out of control in my chest.
I bit his bottom lip, hard enough to taste copper, and he growled—actually growled—before kissing me harder. Messier. Like we were fighting with our mouths instead of our words, like he was trying to prove something or punish me or maybe both.
I wanted more. Wanted his hands on bare skin, wanted his control to shatter completely, wanted to drown in whatever this volatile thing was between us.
And then he stopped.
Drew pulled back like I’d burned him, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen and slightly bloody from where I’d bitten him. His shirt hung open, exposing the muscled chest I’d been trying not to notice for weeks.
He looked wrecked. Dangerous. Like he was balanced on a knife’s edge between dragging me back for more and putting a bullet in his own skull.
“This was a mistake,” he said, his voice rough as gravel.
Then he turned and walked away. Just fucking walked away, leaving me pressed against the wall with my shirt twisted, my hair a mess, and my entire body screaming for something he’d started but refused to finish.
I stood there for a long moment, trying to process what had just happened. Trying to understand how I’d gone fromfurious at being ignored to desperate for more of him in the span of minutes.
My hands were shaking. My lips felt bruised. Between my legs, I ached with an emptiness that made me want to scream.
Drew Kamarov had kissed me like he was claiming territory, then walked away like it meant nothing. LikeImeant nothing.
The rage that swept through me was hot and visceral and directed at everyone—at him for starting something he wouldn’t finish, at myself for wanting it so desperately, at the entire fucked-up situation that had put us in the same space to begin with.
I slammed my fist into the wall. Once. Twice. Pain exploded through my knuckles, sharp and clarifying, punishment for wanting something I had no business wanting. The skin split, blood welling up and dripping down my fingers, but I welcomed it. Better to feel pain I could understand than this confused mess of desire and fury.
I cradled my bleeding hand against my chest and forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Control. That was what I needed. Control over my body, my reactions, my goddamn traitorous heart that was beating too fast for someone who knew better.
***
My phone buzzed an hour later while I was wrapping my knuckles in the bathroom. Vance’s name flashed across the screen like a curse, and I almost didn’t answer. But ignoring Vance was more dangerous than facing whatever he wanted.
