Mine.
I don’t walk back to her door—I stalk with predatory intent.
Every footstep is a declaration of ownership. Every breath is a warning of what’s coming.
She thinks she’s still fighting a war she can win.
She hasn’t seen war yet, not really.
I press my palm to the keypad and watch the red glow flicker green with electronic obedience. The lock disengages with a whisper, a hush, like the house itself is holding its breath in anticipation.
And just before I push open the door, I smile.
A slow, dangerous, wolfish thing that shows too many teeth.
Let her glare at me.
Let her spit venom.
Let her fight with everything she has left.
Because I’ll take it all regardless.
And then I’ll take her.
Every last trembling inch of her.
She doesn’t flinch when I walk in.
She doesn’t cower, doesn’t scramble to hide the heat still burning on her cheeks, doesn’t pull the ruined blankets tighter around her naked body. No, she sits there like a sin waiting to be named, thighs parted just wide enough to taunt, lips swollen with defiance, eyes daring me to punish her for every breath she takes without permission.
I don’t speak immediately.
Not at first.
If I do, it’ll come out a growl.
It’ll come out a command she’s not ready to hear.
It’ll come out exactly the way she craves, and I want her to feel the ache of my silence before I ever touch her again.
She shifts—just a fraction of movement—and I see the tremble in her thighs. The ghost of her own hand still echoes in her muscles, and my jaw clenches with the effort it takes not to drag her off that bed by her ankles and ruin her for daring to touch what belongs to me.
“You don’t listen,” I say finally, voice a low rasp, walking slow, calculated, like a storm approaching the coastline. “You knew the rule.”
Her breath stutters, chest rising. “You left me.”
“And now I’m here,” I state simply.
She glares up at me, proud, burning, and broken. “Too late.”
I’m on her in a second.
Not rough—not yet, that comes later.
But controlled. Cold. Precise.
I grip her jaw in my hand, tilt her face up to mine. Her mouth is parted, but not in surrender. In challenge. In thatdelicious space where anger and arousal blur so violently they’re indistinguishable from each other.
