“That makes it worse.”
The silence between us is volatile, humming with tension so sharp it feels like it could slice skin.
One wrong word. One wrong move.
“You don’t own me,” I say again, softer now, but no less certain.
His jaw works, muscles jumping as he fights something feral clawing up his spine.
“Yes,” he says finally, voice breaking on the truth of it. “I fuckingdo.”
And then he kisses me.
The impact is brutal: his mouth crashing into mine, all restraint gone. The kiss is rough and consuming, furious with hunger and alpha pressure, like he’s trying to reclaim something he thinks he’s already lost. His hand slides into my hair, gripping hard enough to anchor me there—not forcing, butnot letting go.
My instincts scream, and my body answers.
I gasp against him, but he doesn’t back off. The hand that was against the wall moves until it presses flat against my lower back, keeping me pinned as his mouth drags across mine. I push back, just enough to make it a challenge—just enough to feel his chest rumble with a warning growl.
“You think I don’t know what this is?” he snarls against my mouth. “You walk in here with his scent all over you: slick-slick-slick, and none of it mine.”
“Beau…”
“Don’t,” he snaps, biting the word off. “And don’teversay his fucking name again.”
I blink up at him, chest heaving.
“You think I did it to hurt you?”
“I think you did it to test me,” he grits out. “And now I’m done being tested.”
He steps back just long enough to grab my thighs—
Then lifts.
I yelp as he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. The entryway disappears behind us as he heads toward the staircase, then up. His huge hand presses against my back as he hauls me into his bedroom, kicks the door shut with one heavy boot, and drops me to the bed with athudthat bounces the mattress.
My whole body sparks.
“You’re mine, Emery Tate,” he growls, already stripping off his shirt. “And you’re gonna remember it.”
“I’m not yours,” I pant, even as my thighs rub together, slick pooling again.
He laughs, the sound low and dangerous.
“Right,” he says, crawling up the bed after me. “So explain why your scent’s already begging.”
I scramble back on instinct, breath tearing out of me, but his hand clamps around my ankle andyanks. My back hits the mattress hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.
My body lights up anyway.
Heat surges low and sharp, every nerve screaming awareness—especially where I’m still sore, still stretched, still aching from being knotted not that long ago. I suck in a breath, and Beau feels it. I see it in the way his jaw locks.
He lowers his head, and as his nose drags down the inside of my thigh, and he inhales—deep and savage, like he’s ripping the scent straight into his lungs.
His whole body goes rigid, and then he snarls.
“Fuck,” he spits. “I can smell himinsideyou.”
