"Fuck you."
"Eventually. But not while you're clinging to an identity that no longer serves you."
Something snapped. I lunged at him, not thinking, just needing to make him hurt like he was hurting me. My fist connected with his chest, solid muscle beneath expensive cotton. Not as satisfying as his face, but something.
He caught my wrist before I could pull back for another swing, spinning me around and pressing me against the wall in one fluid motion. My cheek pressed against cool pink paint, both hands pinned behind my back, his body a line of heat against mine.
"There's my little fighter," he murmured against my ear. "Two days in a row. You're developing patterns."
"Let me go!" I struggled, but he held me easily, efficiently, like restraining violent women was just another Tuesday.
"Why? So you can hit me again? We both know how that ends." His breath ghosted over my neck. "Or is this what you wanted? To provoke a physical response? To make me treat you like Lilah would be treated—roughly, without care?"
"I want you to use my fucking name!"
"No." The word was final, absolute. "That name is gone. That person made choices that led here. Now there's only Bunny, who gets to start fresh. Who gets to be good without all that historical weight."
"I'm not—"
He spun me around, pressing me harder against the wall. Now we were face to face, his storm-grey eyes inches from mine. I could see myself reflected in them—wild, desperate, nothing like the controlled woman I'd thought I was.
"You're fighting so hard," he said softly. "Using violence to avoid feeling vulnerable. It's textbook trauma response. But I wonder..."
"Wonder what?" The words came out breathless.
"What would happen if I gave you something else to fight."
And then he kissed me.
Not gentle. Not kind. His mouth crashed against mine with the same calculated force he used for everything else. One hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head to the angle he wanted. The other pressed against my lower back, holding me in place as surely as any restraint.
I should have bit him. Should have kept my mouth closed, turned away, done anything but what I did.
Which was kiss him back.
I kissed him like I was drowning and he was air. Like I was fighting and winning. Like all my fury and fear could be transmitted through the clash of lips and teeth and tongue. My hands, trapped between us, fisted in his shirt.
He tasted like coffee and control and something darker. Smelled like expensive cologne and clean skin. Felt like every bad decision I'd ever made refined into human form.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His pupils were blown wide, lips slightly swollen. For once, he looked affected. Real. Human.
"Fascinating," he breathed.
Then his mask slipped back into place, and he stepped away, leaving me gasping against the wall.
"Well." He straightened his shirt where I'd wrinkled it. "That was unexpected."
"You kissed me!" My voice came out too high, accusing.
"I did. And you responded beautifully." He moved to his case, pulling out familiar restraints. "But now we need to address this continued refusal to accept your new identifier."
"You can't just—kiss me and then act like nothing happened!"
"Nothing did happen. I tested a hypothesis about redirecting violent impulses. You provided useful data." But his hands shook slightly as he arranged the restraints. "On the bed, please."
"No."
"No?" He turned back to me, and there—just for a second—I saw heat in those controlled eyes. "Would you prefer I kiss you again? Is that what this defiance is about?"
