I try to turn my face to meet him, wanting to look at him, but he doesn't allow me to budge. My cheek scrapes against the roughness of the bark I'm pressed against, and I feel the chill from the melted snow dampening my shirt. I can’t even move my hands because of how tight he has me pressed between him and the tree trunk.
"Oh, don't be that way, Olivia. You knowexactlywho I am. I know I still live somewhere in the back of that wrecked little mind of yours." His voice haunts me. Creeps into my ears and crawls over the surface of my skin like an iniquitous serpent.
It's deep and rough; a guttural divinity that my body reacts to. But I don't miss the slight anger laced in his tone. And the way he's holding me, like I've done something wrong. But I’m the one with the grudge to hold. I’m the one who should be mad at him, so what the hell is his problem?
He pushes me further into the tree, his hand pressing hard against my head while the other grips my hip like his life depends on it. His touch is bruising and of course I can feel the parallel sense of hatred radiating from his body, but part of me holds no rational desire to show the logical portion of fear. Only the illogical part, the part that makes my body flood with desire.
"Say it," he growls, the heat of his breath brushes against my ear and I can't avoid the shiver my bodygives him. A shiver my body craves as I recall the way his touch has always made me tremble with want.
What is wrong with me?
I don't speak. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of submitting to whatever game he's playing. But he doesn't like that.
"Say my fucking name, Livie." His words are harsh, etched with a fury so strong, a hint of evil weaved into the fabric of them, that it almost causes me to be scared. But he uses the nickname he’d given me. He’s the only one who’s ever used it and my heart aches, remembering that he was once my safe place but then . . . he incinerated me. Torched me from the inside out.
He pushes into me a little harder, causing me to groan.
"Come on. You know who I am. Say. My. Fucking. Name." He speaks each word a severe intention, letting me really hear the fire stoked in his tone.
I close my eyes, trying to squeeze away the memories of him that are plaguing my mind. Like the way he used to touch me; a lot gentler than he is now. Or the way he used to say my name, like I was his evermore. But now he says it like I'm his ruinous nightmare. And maybe I am. Or maybe . . .he’s mine. But I doubt that he knows that I often find solace in my nightmares, so he’s going to have to try a lot harder to break me.
I part my lips to speak, craving to say it. I want to know how he’ll react when he hears it fall from my mouth after all this time. So I give into the request by whispering his name.
"Trace." His name is a sin I promised myself I’d never speak of again, and here I am, succumbing to thedevil himself. I feel the unmistakable tear spilling down my cheek, hating that he has this effect on me.
He lets go of the grip on my hip and I feel the relief of not having his fingers dig into my skin as the burn he leaves in the wake of his touch sears into my bones.
He reaches up to swipe the tear from my skin, bringing his face closer to my ear.
"Did you miss me, little reckless?" he whispers, and my body nearly gives out.
Yes.
But I can't. I can't let that secret surface or I’ll lose a piece of myself. I refuse to let him see my weakness. Not when I don’t even know what the hell he’s doing here. And why the hell did he just call mereckless?
As much as I hate to admit that I might have missed him, I alsohatehim. I can’t forget the way he left me, the way he abandoned me. I risk bringing my hand back slowly, the one with the barbed wire rings. I don’t intend to hurt him, I just want him to know…
I let my hand reach for whatever I can grab behind me, my palm landing on his thigh. And I squeeze. Not hard. But a pleasurable amount of pressure.
I can feel him twitch. And I swear I hear him gasp. I want him to know that I kept them after all this time even if I never wore them before; I didn't really need to, until now. But he doesn’t say anything. The only sound significant enough is the sound of our breathing dancing against each other. But then the sound of my heartbeat starts to fill my ears as I realize that I’m way in over my head. So I bring my hand back and press it on the bark in front of me.
"What do you want?" I ask him, closing my eyes and trying to steady my nerves even though my adrenalineis pumping fiercely and everything stings with a delicious burn.
Trace flips me around, letting go of my hair and pushing my back into the tree. He brings his face down to mine, only it's not his face. It's his mask; the neon lights of his stitched mouth damn near brushing the curve of my lips.
Trace has always been intimidating, emanating power and dark control. But he’s never been dominant with me. Not like this. Not in a way that one might find frightening or be afraid of. He’s always been gentle with me, listening to my words and making sure that I never had to ask for anything. The rest of the world got to see the brutal side of him, only ever treatingmeas if I were his everything. I think I liked that about him. Knowing he was cruel and vindictive with everyone else, wickedly violent even. But with me he was always compassionate and sweet.
This is not the same. Now, I’m the victim to his savagely punishing ways, evident in the way he’s crowding me and pinning me down like I’ve wronged him one way or the other. But he’s got it all wrong, I’m not his enemy. If anything, I should be the one showing him just how much I hate him for what he’s done to me. But even resurfacing all the anger I hold for him, I still don’t want to see him come to harm. So why is he doing this to me? And why am I frozen, weak against his hold on me?
That’s when I realize he's not actually holding me down anywhere, allowing me to have a chance to run free from his torment. But I don't. Instead I just wait for him to tell me what the hell he wants with me.
Trace lifts a hand, letting his finger run over the outline of my jaw before gliding his way up toward my ear. He brushes a few tendrils of my chaotic hair—likely from being tossed around by him—behind my ear before leaning down and getting as close to my face as he can without touching me.
"That's for me to know and for you to find out."
9
OLIVIA
