Her thigh brushes the bulge in my pants.And that’s when I lose the last shred of restraint.The blade slides from the sheath.My hand knows the motion.My body knows the thrill.My blood knows the hunger.
I hold it close enough she feels the cold shadow of it.
“You don’t get it,” I say.“You push me, and I don’t push back.”
I break.I destroy.I take.
She looks at the knife like it’s a promise.Like it’s a secret.Like it’s a confession she’s been waiting to hear.
“You think I’m fearful of your blade?”she breathes.
“No,” I say.“You’re scared because you want it.”
Her lips part.Her pupils dilate.And the truth hits me like a kick to the ribcage.I want her with the same intensity I want to drive this blade into the world that hurt us both, sharp, unforgiving, honest.
I lean in.Too close.Too far gone.
If I kiss her, this ends.If I kiss her, I won’t stop.If I kill her, I’ll die, too.
So, I shove the knife back into its sheath, step away like she burned me, and force myself out of the room before I undo everything I’ve ever been.
The door slams behind me.
I don’t breathe again until I’m halfway down the hall.
I hate her.
I want her.
I crave her.
I fear her.
I’d bleed for her.
I’d make others bleed for her.
I’m already lost.
And she’s still chained to my bed.
I make it ten steps down the hall before I have to brace myself on the wall.My breath drags like my lungs forgot how to work.My hands shake.My pulse hammers like a war drum.
I haven’t lost control like that since I was a kid.Since before the club.Before discipline.Before I learned to bury every urge under steel and silence.
But Becki Crowley unravels all of it.
I should walk away.I should go to the war room, breathe, pray, sharpen my knives until the desire burns out.
Instead… I turn back.Not to her door.To the room I’ve been staying in, the one in the basement.I lock myself inside and lean back against it, head tipped to the wood, chest heaving.
This room is a tomb, but I imagine my room, the mattress, still rumpled from her sleeping chained to it.Her scent is still me, soft, warm, maddening.My fists curl.I want to tear the place apart.I want to drag her back into my arms and hold her until the shaking stop, hers or mine, I don’t know.I want to press her against the wall again and see how far she’ll let me go before she stops pretending she ain’t begging.
I want.
No.
No, I want too much.
