I pace the room, counting seconds in my head. Iselyn watches me from the couch, Leo watches her, glancing my way now and then.
Seven more seconds.
I pace one last time, then storm out of the room. Five minutes is generous for someone meeting her a second time.
I ring the bell. The door doesn’t open for twenty seconds. She takes this long when she’s sitting,she must be sitting. My brain feeds me images of her in Roxion’s lap, kissing him.
Fuck no.
I slam my fist against the door.
It opens a crack. Marco stands there, filling the doorway in his race suit, still sweating from the track.
“What’s going on?” His face is serious.
“Where is she?” I demand.
He steps aside and opens the door wider. Inside, she rises from the couch when she sees me and moves toward the entrance.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Come with me.” My tone leaves no space for refusal.
She turns to Marco and gives him an apologetic. “See you tomorrow.”
He nods, leans in, and kisses her cheek. Blood wells beneath my fingernails where they tear into the hardened skin of my palm.
He pulls away, and yet my mind replays the contact of his lips on her skin over and over. My head starts to burn—hotter than it ever did sitting inside a cockpit. More blood seeps from my palm; my nails dig deeper from the effort of restraining myself, using every scrap of willpower to stop from smashing his face on the floor and tearing his mouth apart with my hands.
She walks out of the room, and he closes the door behind her after giving me a small, fleeting smile.
She turns toward me, “Wha—”
I smash my mouth onto hers, holding her face firmly between my palms. She watches me with wide eyes, frozen in shock. I take both her lips between mine, sucking hard. She closes her eyes, yielding, relaxing against my insistence. I seize her upper lip with my tongue, thrusting into her mouth. I want to close my eyes to savor this moment, but a sniper only closes his eyes when he dies.
My head cools completely when her tongue slides against mine. She sucks my lower lip, and for a brief, blinding second, the side of me that wants her above all else overpowers every shred of rationality. I kiss her more fiercely, desperately imprinting in her soul that she is mine. She moves her hands into my hair, pulling me closer. My eyes shut tight. This moment is worth dying for.
I need more of her. I need all of her. I thread one hand through her hair and slide the other down her waist, lifting her and pressing her against the wall. Her hands clutch my face; she bites my upper lip as I suck on her lower one. Our teeth collide, and she thrusts her tongue into my mouth. I respond—licking, sucking, grazing it with my teeth—losing myself completely.
The sudden sound of the door opening yanks me back to reality. I release her and step away.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I say, watching her face twist with hurt and fury.
She punches me in the face. “Fuck you!” she shouts, striding toward my suite. I follow closely behind her.
Avira
Lyn rises from the couch the instant she sees me. “Oh my God, are you hurt?”
Is my broken heart that visible?
She touches my cheek carefully. Then exhales. “It’s not your blood.”
Blood? I frown. I’m pretty sure people don’t bleed from frustration, arousal, anger, and hurt, no matter how violently those feelings collide in one place.
She reaches for the napkins on the table and gently wipes my face. There’s literally blood smeared across my skin, but how? Oh. I know how.
He’s hurt.
