The kind meant to cut.
“You think I am oblivious to how, she looks at me?Like I’m poison wearing lipstick.”
“You might be.”
She stands slowly, the chain pulling taut, sliding across the metal bar of the cot.
“I ain’t the only poison in this room.”
I jerk.“Don’t test me,” I warn.
“I’m counting on you failing,” she whispers.
I step forward.She doesn’t retreat.
Two predators, one cage.
“You escape again…” I start, hating to risk her.
“You’ll catch me again.”
“Not fast enough.”
“Sophie wants it, too.To use me as bait.”
Something in me snaps.
I grab her wrist…
Not the chained one, the free one…
And slam her back into the wall.She gasps.Not in fear.In challenge.
“I can’t let you run again?”I snarl.“Run.I’ll drag you back bleeding.”
“Do it,” she breathes.“Do something real.”
I pin her hands above her head.Her breath hits my throat.Her lips part.
“Royal,” she whispers.
Something breaks loose inside me like a dam giving way.
My mouth crashes against hers.A violent, bruising, desperate kiss.More threat than tenderness.Her teeth scrape my lip.Her nails rake my neck.She’s shaking.I’m shaking.
Her breath stutters.
Her body arches.
Mine answers without permission.
It’s hunger for her.It’s hatred for wanting to risk her even only for a moment.It’s need sharpened into something unholy.
I break away, chest heaving, forehead pressed to hers.
“This can’t happen,” I rasp.
“Then why does it?”she whispers.
