"This is a bad idea," he says quietly.
"Probably."
"You're vulnerable. I'm supposed to be protecting you."
"You are protecting me by teaching me how to protect myself."
"That's not what this is becoming."
He's right. I know he's right. The space between us is too small, too warm, charged with awareness that's been building since he stepped between me and Domenic on the terrace and saw a person instead of a pawn.
"Blake," I say softly.
"Don't." His jaw clenches. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
"Why is it hard?"
"Because you're beautiful and fierce and standing in my apartment in a dress that's been driving me insane for three fucking hours." The words come out rough, honest, like he didn't mean to say them, but I’m so glad he did. "Because every instinct I have is telling me to kiss you, and every rule I have says that's exactly what I shouldn't do."
My breath catches. "What if I want you to?"
"Then you're not thinking clearly. You're scared, you're in danger, and I'm the nearest thing to safety you've got. That's adrenaline talking, not choice."
"You don't get to decide what I'm thinking."
"No, but I get to decide what I'm willing to do." He steps back, creating distance that feels like a rejection worse than being stood up for the prom. "You should get some sleep. Real sleep. Tomorrow's going to be hell, and you need to be ready."
He's dismissing me. Pushing me away. Doing the right thing even though every instinct I have tells me he wants to do the opposite. I should be grateful and appreciate that this notorious Delano killer has boundaries and ethics and all the things that make him different from the other men in his world and mine.
Instead, I'm furious.
“Do you like women?” I mock.
Blake's eyes flash. "Excuse me?"
“You either don’t like women or you’re a coward. You talk about teaching me to fight, about not being fair, about doing whatever it takes to survive, but the second things get real between us, you think I’m suddenly dumb and can’t make my own decisions.”
“You just found out life-changing news, learned how to fight, and now you want to fuck me? I’m just trying to protect you, Miss Quinn.”
“Oh, so it’s Miss Quinn now?” I scoff. “And what exactly are you protecting me from? From wanting something? From feeling something? From being human?" My hands are fisting in his shirt before I realize I'm moving. "I've spent my entire life being so-called protected. Being handled. Being the dutiful daughter of a politician who, by the way, still hasn’t called me directly tonight. And I'm done. So if you want to kiss me, kiss me. And if you don't, stop pretending it's for my benefit."
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “This would be a mistake.”
“That’s the best way to learn.”
For a moment, I think he's going to accept my challenge. His hands come up, hover near my waist like he's deciding. I start fantasizing about what it would be like to have him hold me, inside of me, consume me. A night in bed with him would be the cherry on top of this mind fuckery of a day.
Blake’s eyes are dark, hungry, full of want he's trying desperately to control.
Then he drops his hands and steps back.
My clit is practically throbbing, but now my ovaries weep with grief.
He doesn’t want me. Not badly enough.
"Bedroom's through there," he says, voice carefully neutral. "Lock the door if it makes you feel safer."
The rejection stings more than it should.
