He’s broken.
And somewhere in that ruin, he’s still choosing me.
His tongue slips past my lips, and he devours me and doesn’t let up.
His fingers pry my panties to the side one minute, and his cock is entering me the next.
I gasp against his lips as he bottoms out inside me.
He’s fierce and still angry. He fucks me to prove I belong to him, and that nothing will change that.
Every thrust is a demand, every breath a threat disguised as a kiss. He grips my hip hard enough to bruise, anchoring me in place, forcing me to take him exactly how he wants.
The sound of our bodies fills the silence that he’s too controlled to break.
I try to move, to push against him, but his hand slides up, fingers circling my throat—not tightly, just enough to remind me who’s in control.
His forehead drops against mine, and his breath comes hot and uneven.
“You think running fixes this?” he growls.
I shake my head, even though I did.
His pace slows, not growing softer, just hitting deeper. He’s looking at me now, searching for something I can’t give him.
Remorse.
Surrender.
Maybe both.
But the story remains the same. He forced me into an agreement, and my free will demands to break free.
But at what cost?
My pride?
My stubbornness?
Or my future that’s riddled with an organized crime organization that will swallow me whole?
His hand slides up my throat again, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “You think I wanted it like this?” His voice is dangerous. “You think I enjoy chasing what’s already mine?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The words are trapped somewhere between fury and fear.
He thrusts once, hard enough that the breath catches in my lungs. “You should’ve stayed where I left you, Sienna.”
My nails dig into his shoulders. “You would’ve found another reason to come after me. You just won’tleave me alone. And I hate you for it.”
He smirks, but there’s nothing warm in it. “You’re right. But at least I could’ve trusted you.”
The words land harder than his body. I see it then, the flicker of something that isn’t just rage. It’s disappointment. Betrayal, maybe.
“I don’t want to lock you up.” His voice drops to a growl. “But you make it damn hard to give you a choice.”
His control is slipping, and I feel it in the way he moves. It’s measured, but desperate to prove something neither of us can name. Every breath between us feels like a dare.
I know how this ends.
