I wanted her closer.
I wanted the smell of her rage. The heat of her defiance.
“Careful now,” I murmured, pouring syrup over the crêpes, the golden ribbon catching the light. “That kind of passion could lead you into dangerous territory.”
“Dangerous?” she barked. “You’ve turned my life into a goddamn prison!”
She hurled the box onto the counter like it burned her. It landed with a dull, heavy thud.
“This isn’t a gift,” she spat. “It’s a chain.”
“Chains made of silk,” I said smoothly, “are still chains.”
Her anger stoked the hunger in my chest.
A delicious, slow-building ache.
She was fire. Wild and holy and mine to tame.
“I won’t be your possession,” she growled, nostrils flaring.
“No?” I tilted my head. “Then why do you keep coming back?”
I leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, casual as a king watching his queen choose whether to kneel or strike.
The silence pulsed between us.
Electric.
Alive.
Her eyes darted to the plate. The steam rising from the crêpes. The scent of butter and sugar and something almost warm.
For just a heartbeat, her posture shifted.
Almost soft.
Almost tempted.
Then she caught herself—straightened her spine and locked her jaw again. “Because you’re suffocating me.”
“And yet…” I said softly, “you’re still standing here.”
She didn’t deny it.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t throw the plate like she wanted to.
I took a slow step toward her.
Close enough to smell her skin. Close enough to watch her pupils shift.
“Do you want to sit down, Persephone?” I asked, voice low. “Or are you going to keep pretending this doesn’t get under your skin?”
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
