The satisfaction of seeing his eyes bulge as I drive it deep into his gut is like nothing in this world. I back away as he slowly pulls the knife out, and blood pours from the wound.
I race toward the door, but a hand shoots out and grips me by the hair. His granite arm bands around me, cradling me to his chest.
“You little hypocrite,” he commends. “You preach peace and practice violence.” Cheek pressed to my head, he takes a deep inhale and whispers, “My soap smells delicious on you.”
I reach around and dig my fingers into the fresh wound. His laugh becomes a hiss as I dart for the door again. Shadows like swirling whips lash out to slide the locks on the door shut, sealing me in with an angry bear.
“Stay away from me,” I warn, pressing myself against the door and inching toward the open balcony.
Kylian ignores my request, taking a gracious step in my direction as his corded shadows retreat and dissipate. The gash on his washboard stomach knits together, sealing itself into a tiny red scratch.
“Let’s not fight, darling.” He holds out his arms, suppressing a smirk as I near the fireplace. “Truce?”
Snatching the poker from its iron rack, I twirl it once before angling the pointy end his way. He snickers and gives me a patronizing golf clap.
“Well played.” He bends over the chair between us, his voice confidential. “But I think your moves could use some refining.”
A scream flies past my lips as he appears an inch from me with unnatural speed. I swing the poker toward his head on instinct. He grabs the pole and yanks it, ripping it from my hands as I crash into him, chest to chest, nose to nose.
“Next time”—Kylian snatches up my wrist and places my hand flush against his bare chest, over his left breast—“you go straight for the heart.”
“What heart?”
I stare up at him, snarling. He stares back with searing intensity.
He doesn’t release my hand. His fingers slide over mine, trapping them there.
My breathing evens out as I focus on his face.
I hate that face.
I focus on his eyes.
I hate those eyes.
I focus on his lips.
I hate those lips.
I don’t know how or when it happens, but suddenly his hands are on me, tugging me closer, and I don’t pull away.
Not even as they braid through my hair.
Not even as they bring me up to his waiting lips.
Not even as they taint me with sinful pleasure.
* Cue:Talkby Hozier
10
SERENA
Sleeping beside a monster, a killer, a true psychopath is not ideal for getting a good eight hours in.
But sleepingwitha monster? That shit will turn you fully nocturnal.
I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just…cracked. It was like a thousand cuts all at once—I was drowning in fear, in anger, in sadness, and there he was and I justcracked.
