Her cheeks flush, eyes wide with fury and something darker, need, hunger she’s never wanted to name. I watch the battle behind her eyes: anger, shame, the desperate ache of wanting. She trembles, caught between surrender and defiance.
I lean in, my mouth hovering over hers, close enough for the heat to pass between us. She doesn’t move, doesn’t protest when my lips brush hers—light at first, a promise, a tease. Then harder, rougher, my hand threading through her hair to hold her in place.
She shudders, her lips parting on a gasp that betrays her, lets me in. Her hands fist in my shirt, at first to push me away, then simply to hold on.
I press my body to hers, savoring the tremor that runs through her when I bite gently at her throat.
“Say you want me,” I breathe against her skin, daring her to give in.
She shakes her head, breathless, voice unsteady. “No, I won’t—”
But her hands slide up, clutching my shoulders, pulling me closer even as she denies me. I push my knee between her thighs, pinning her in place. She gasps, caught on the edge of something sharp and sweet.
For a moment, she’s pliant under my hands, breath hot against my mouth, heart racing.
Then I pull back, slow and cruel, my hand dropping from her jaw, my body a sudden absence she can’t fill. She stares at me, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, fury and longing mingling in her eyes.
I smirk, voice cold and sure. “You’ll beg when it’s real.” The promise hangs between us, heavy with threat and anticipation.
She stiffens, outrage warring with want. “Bastard,” she spits, voice shaking.
I laugh softly, stepping back, forcing air into the space between us. “Go.”
She lingers for a heartbeat, trembling, eyes blazing. Then she pushes past me, nearly running for the stairs, the packet of snacks crushed in her hand. I watch her go, the sway of her hips, the wild tangle of her hair, the imprint of my touch already written on her skin.
When the echoes of her footsteps fade, I make my way to the kitchen, moving slow, letting the aftershocks settle through my veins. I set the gun down on the polished counter, fingers shaking only slightly.
The world outside is dangerous tonight, full of rivals and threats and the old ghosts that always circle my house. Yet noneof them have shaken me half as much as the woman who just slipped through my hands.
I grind coffee, the simple, brutal rhythm of it grounding me in the present. The scent fills the room, earthy and dark. I pour boiling water, letting the heat seep into my bones. I stand in the pool of yellow light, mug warming my hands, and think of her—her lips parted, her breath coming in stutters, the feel of her body fighting not just me but herself.
She’s a puzzle I haven’t solved, a fire I can’t put out. I crave the moment she breaks—not from fear, but from need. I want to see her beg, to hear my name on her lips not as a curse, but as a plea.
Yet beneath the hunger, something else stirs. When I tasted her defiance, felt her tremble with wanting, I almost lost my grip on control. I almost let myself forget the rules, the lines I drew long ago to keep myself safe, to keep her safe.
I drink my coffee, bitter and black, letting it burn down my throat, trying to douse the ache she leaves behind.
I stare out the window, watching the city’s lights flicker in the darkness, my reflection fractured and strange in the glass.
Somewhere upstairs, Sera lies awake, the ghost of my touch burning on her skin, her body as restless as mine. I know she’ll fight me tomorrow. She’ll glare and spit and deny every crack I’ve made in her armor.
It only makes me want her more.
The night drags on, silent and slow. I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, load another round into the pistol. There’s work to do, threats to chase down, old enemies to outmaneuver. But my mind drifts, again and again, to her: the wildness in her gaze, the shudder of her breath, the way she moaned my name when she thought she could hate me.
Tomorrow, I’ll push her further. Tomorrow, I’ll see just how much of her resistance is real, and how much is just waiting for permission to fall.
The kitchen is quiet, just the steady hum of the fridge and the city’s distant pulse leaking through glass.
She’s everywhere—in the memory of her body pressed to mine, in the echo of her breathless gasp, in the bitter taste she’s left on my tongue.
I rub a hand over my face. For a man who has built his life on discipline, the raw ache in my chest is unfamiliar. I want her—I want her surrender, her fury, the way she can’t quite decide if she wants to fight me or give in. No rival, no threat ever made my blood run hotter.
Upstairs, I know she’s awake. I know she’s thinking of me, trying to hate me, trying to resist what’s already begun. The knowledge is its own kind of victory.
I check the locks, lights, and camera feeds, every move routine. Yet all I see, even in shadow, is her. The night stretches ahead—long, restless, hungry for what tomorrow might bring.
Chapter Fifteen - Seraphina
