He doesn’t let go.
And I don’t back down.
But when I look up at him, something cracks in my chest. Because I think he means it.
He doesn’t want to cage me.
He just doesn’t trust me not to run.
It shouldn’t matter. He’s the villain in every version of this story. The man who pulled the strings, who made me a deal I never wanted.
But right now, he looks more like a man trying to convince himself he’s doing the right thing.
“Tell me I can trust you,” he murmurs roughly against my ear.
I stay quiet, my silence its own confession.
His jaw tightens. “That’s what I thought.”
He pulls out just enough to make me gasp before slamming back in, anger rolling off him like heat. Even as my body responds, my mind spins, trying to decide what’s more dangerous.
His wrath.
Or his need to believe I’m still his.
He keeps moving at a relentless, punishing pace. Every thrust feels like a statement, every breath between us a war neither of us will win. His name leaves my lips in broken pieces, not from pleasure or pain, but because I can’t stop myself.
He curses under his breath, pressing his forehead to mine like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“You drive me insane,” he mutters. “You make me fucking lose it.”
“Then let me go,” I breathe.
He stills, just for a heartbeat. Then his fingers slide down my thigh, gripping tighter. “Not a chance.”
When he moves again, it’s slower, deeper, controlled chaos at its finest. The kind that unravels me from the inside out. I can feel him burning the distance away, to make sure I remember who he is and what he owns.
And maybe I do.
Because when I finally break apart beneath him, it’s his name I choke on, his control I cling to.
He follows right after, his release hitting with a guttural sound that shakes something loose in both of us. For a moment, everything goes still, just his breath against my neck, my heart pounding too loud to ignore.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His hand stays at my throat, not in a threat, but in a reminder.
His voice is rough when he speaks. “You don’t have to like me, Sienna. But you will listen.”
I swallow hard, the words catching somewhere between defiance and surrender. “And if I don’t?”
He looks at me then—reallylooks at me—and I almost wish he hadn’t. Whatever’s left in his eyes isn’t anger. It’s something heavier. Darker.
“Then I’ll make sure you don’t have a choice.”
He leaves me there with that promise, pulling away like it costs him something.
Maybe it does.
When he leaves the kitchen and me behind him, I realize I’m shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
