Fuck.
There it is.
The backbone.
The bite.
The part of her that wants to be owned but won’t kneel easily.
“Oh, butterfly,” I murmur, dragging the name out slow like a threat dressed in silk. “You think looking at me was a choice?”
She blinks.
I lean in, close enough she can feel my breath on her cheek.
“You didn’t look at me, Cassandra. You saw me.”
“And what’s the difference?”
“I don’t let people see me.”
Her breath hitches again. “Maybe I wasn’t trying.”
“No. But your body was.”
I watch the flush rise in her cheeks, blooming under her skin like something I want to bite.
She’s quiet for a second, and I think she might try to run, but then she whispers, “You always talk to girls like this?”
I smirk, but there’s no humour in it.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t talk much at all.”
“Guess I’m special then.”
“Not yet,” I say, stepping in fully now, letting her feel just how close I am, how big I am, how fucked she is if she doesn’t back up.
She doesn’t.
“But you could be.”
“Could be what?”
“Special.”
I tilt my head, watching every twitch in her face, every flicker of doubt or heat or pride.
“You could be the girl who ruins me.”
“And what if I don’t want to ruin anyone?”
“Then I’ll ruin you instead.”
She goes still.
