She tried to turn away.
I caught her wrist.
Gently. Firmly. Like I was holding the last piece of my control in my hand.
“Let me help you,” I said, my voice low. Gravel and steel.
My thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. Warm. Soft. Fragile.
Her eyes softened—for a second. One heartbeat where something flickered between us. Something real.
But then it vanished. Like she’d slammed the door shut again and thrown away the key.
“No.”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
But it was final.
And that quiet refusal…
It nearly destroyed me.
“You think this is just about a cut?” I said, voice low, lethal. “Someone hurt you. And I wasn’t here.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” I said. “But you don’t have to.”
She blinked. A crack in her armor.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked. The challenge was unmistakable.
I stared down at her—at the blood, at the fury, at the way she stood her ground even now.
And something inside me snapped.
This wasn’t just about the wound on her skin.
This was about the line she kept drawing between us.
And me erasing it.
With a growl, I grabbed her chin, tilting her face up, and crashed my mouth against hers—fierce, hungry, unrelenting. I tasted her blood. Her defiance. Her need. It hit me like a drug.
She gasped, but she didn’t pull away.
And for the first time in a long time, I lost control.
I never lose control.
But with her?
I never stood a chance.
The moment I pulled away, her hand cracked across my face.
The sting bloomed hot against my cheek, sharp and immediate—a warning and a punishment wrapped into one.
