His eyes flick to my mouth for a fraction of a second.
I strike.
I slash upward, aiming for his arm.
It’s fast. Faster than I thought I could be.
Silas moves, but not fast enough to avoid it completely. The tip of my blade catches the sleeve of his shirt.Riiip.Fabric tears. A thin line of red appears on his forearm.
We both freeze.
I stare at the blood welling up on his skin. A drop falls onto the pristine white snow. Like a rose petal.
"I..." I gasp, dropping the knife. "Silas, I’m sorry! I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," he roars.
He closes the distance. He kicks my knife away and grabs the front of my jacket, slamming me backward until my spine hits the rough bark of a pine tree.
He pins me there with his body. His hips grind against mine. His face is inches from mine, his eyes wild, dilated.
"You drew blood," he breathes. He sounds exhilarated. He sounds aroused.
He lifts his bleeding arm and presses the wound against my cheek. He smears his warm, wet blood onto my frozen skin.
"That," he growls, "is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever done."
"You’re bleeding," I whimper, my heart hammering so hard I think it might crack my ribs.
"Pain is information," he says. "It tells you you’re alive."
He leans in. He kisses me.
It’s not a kiss; it’s a war. His tongue invades my mouth, tasting the cold and the fear. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, gripping my waist, squeezing my ass through the thick tactical pants.
He presses his erection against my stomach. He is hard. Rock hard. The violence turned him on.Iturned him on.
"You are dangerous," he murmurs against my lips. "My little artist. My little killer."
He pulls back, breathing heavily. He looks at the blood on my cheek. He licks his thumb and wipes it away, then puts his thumb in his mouth, tasting his own essence mixed with my sweat.
"Pick up the knife," he orders.
"Silas..."
"Pick it up. We’re not done until you can put me on my knees."
We train for hours.
By the time he lets me stop, my muscles are screaming. My knuckles are bruised. I am exhausted, cold, and hungry.
But I feel... solid.
I feel like the iron in my blood has hardened into steel.
We go back inside the cabin. Silas tends to the fire while I collapse onto the bench at the table. He opens a can of beans and heats them on the stove. It’s not roast beef. It’s not served on china. But when he hands me the spoon, I eat it like it’s a feast.
"We have a problem," Silas says, leaning against the counter, eating directly from the can.
