Something in his expression shifts, becomes almost vulnerable. "Maybe not."
The admission surprises me. I expected arrogance, justification, anything but this quiet acknowledgment that what he's doing is wrong.
"Then let me go," I whisper.
"I can't." His voice is rough with what might be regret. "I wish I could, but I can't."
I try to move past him, to get to the door even though I know the elevator won't work. But he catches my arm, his grip gentle but unbreakable.
"Don't," he says.
"Let go of me."
"Hannah—"
"Let. Go."
Instead of releasing me, he steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, that same expensive scent that has haunted my dreams for weeks. Close enough that I can see the way his pulse beats at his throat.
"Still want to leave?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I should say yes. Should push him away and demand my freedom. Should remind him that whatever happened between us five weeks ago doesn't give him the right to hold me prisoner.
Instead, I find myself grabbing the front of his shirt, my fingers closing around the expensive fabric. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I hate that you left me alone in that hotel room."
"I know."
"I hate that you gave me an amazing night and then disappeared."
"I know."
"I hate that you're doing this to me now."
"I know." His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "But you don't hate me."
He's right, and that's what makes this so impossibly complicated. I should hate him. Should be terrified of him. Should be calling the police instead of leaning into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
But all I can think about is the way he looked at me that night. The way he made me feel alive in ways I had never experienced before.
"This is wrong," I whisper.
"Yes, it is."
"You can't just keep me here."
"I have to."
"Why?"
Instead of answering, he leans down and presses his forehead against mine. We're breathing the same air. Sharing the same space. I can feel the tension crackling between us like electricity before a storm.
"Because the alternative is losing you," he says finally. "And I can't do that."
The raw honesty in his voice breaks something inside me. This man—this dangerous, complicated, impossible man—is afraid of losing me.
