"The clothes stay," I say. "You'll wear them when I tell you to. No arguments."
"And what if I don't?"
"Then we revisit the terms of our agreement."
"You mean you threaten my mother again."
I show my teeth. "Precisely."
She laughs and shakes her head. "I hate you."
"You've mentioned that."
"I mean it. I can't stand you. Your control, your arrogance, your?—"
I catch movement at the edge of my vision. The hem of her shirt shifts as she gestures, and I see something that makes me pause.
A logo. Faded but visible.
"Who's shirt is that?" I growl.
She stops mid-sentence. "What?"
"The shirt. It's a men's shirt, this brand doesn’t produce women clothing. Who does it belong to?"
Her face goes carefully blank. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"It's just a shirt. From?—"
"Adrian." The name is acid on my tongue. "It's his, isn't it?"
She doesn't answer, which is answer enough. And then the vixenshrugs.
Something dark and possessive surges in my chest. "Take it off."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Take it off. Now."
"I'm not taking off my?—"
I close the distance between us in two steps, grab the hem of the shirt, and yank hard.
The old fabric tears.
She yelps, stumbling back, but I follow, yanking the shirt over her head before she can stop me. It comes away ripping, leaving her standing there in those ridiculous sweatpants and a black lace bra that does absolutely nothing to hide her.
The air between us goes electric.
She's frozen, arms half-raised, caught between shock and instinct. And I can see everything.
Everything…
Fuck.
The way her skin flushes from her chest up to her face. The delicate lace that's completely transparent, revealing the dusky,rosy peaks beneath that tighten under my gaze—hardening into tight points.
