Mine to build again.
I came hard against my own skin, every pulse a silent vow she’d get there. Whether she walked or crawled, begged or bit—I’d have her.
And she’d thank me for it.
I cleaned up, pulled on black pajama pants that slung low across my hips, and padded barefoot down the hall. The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the city beyond the glass.
I stopped at her door.
Hand hovering.
Not knocking.
Not asking.
I wasn’t a fucking guest in her life.
I twisted the knob slowly. The lock had been disabled hours ago. She hadn’t realized yet. Wouldn’t matter if she did.
The door creaked open.
I didn’t look at her right away. Let the moment settle. Let her make the first move.
Let her think she still had one.
Then…
The shift in air.
The sound of soft steps on hardwood.
She stepped to the door.
Careful.
Reluctant.
Drawn to me like gravity.
My back remained to her, but I could feel her eyes—the way they dragged across my bare torso, hesitation twisted with heat and resentment.
She hated herself for looking.
That made it better.
She crossed her arms. Voice low, bitter, controlled. “I’m not hungry.”
I leaned against the frame, perfectly at ease. “I didn’t ask.”
Her glare was a slow burn, all fury and pride and false power.
“You think you’ve won.”
I tilted my head. Smiled like a wolf with blood in its teeth. “Haven’t I?”
She expected something else.
Expected me to lash out, to drag her by the throat back into my world.
