The sounds they’ve pulled out of people.
The screams.
The silence after.
She doesn’t know what I see when I close my eyes.
She doesn’t know who I really am.
But she’s going to find out.
Because the second she looked at me like I was the answer to a question she didn’t know she was asking—she became mine.
And I don’t give a fuck if Lola’s my sister.
I don’t give a fuck about right or wrong.
She looked at me as if she wanted to be ruined.
And baby, I never leave a job unfinished.
She’s still staring like I’m the goddamn fire and she hasn’t decided if she wants to run or burn in it.
Good.
She should be unsure.
She should question everything.
Because if she doesn’t—if she just gives in too easily—I won’t be able to stop myself from tearing her apart just to see how she screams.
“So,” I say, voice low, the kind that’s meant for locked doors and closed mouths. “You gonna tell me what you were thinking about when you were eye-fucking me from across the room?”
Her breath catches.
Not sharp.
Not embarrassed.
Caught.
Like she just realised she’s not the one holding the leash.
“I wasn’t?—”
“Don’t lie to me,” I cut in, stepping closer again, closing the distance she clearly doesn’t want me to close, but doesn’t move to stop either.
“Your eyes said everything.”
She swallows.
Hard.
And then she does something dangerous—something stupid.
She lifts her chin.
“You didn’t exactly look away either.”
