She lifts her hands in mock surrender. “Right, sorry, let me fix that. Oh no,” she says lightly. “Mister Cupid Killer is gonna get me.” Her eyes flick to my mask. “Maybe don’t kill me,though,” she whispers with a smirk/ “At least not until after you fuck me.”
I dip my head just enough to let her feel how close I am. Fed up. Amused. Very aware of how fucked this is.
“You’re playing a risky fucking game,” I tell her.
She smiles wider, unapologetic as hell. “You’re the one who wanted to play.”
“Hmmm. Is this the shit you’re into? These fucked up little games,” I say quietly.
“You know,” she says lightly, “for a guy who literally decorates bodies with messages, after you chase, and kill them, you’re awfully quick to kink-shame.”
“Not kink shaming. It's just stating that you’re quickly becoming a problem.”
“Oh yeah? For who?”
“For me.”
That shuts her up for a beat.
I step closer, heat building, tension tightening like a wire pulled too far. I don’t cage her in. I don’t rush her. I just exist in her space, unavoidable.
“You’re a fucking problem,” I murmur, eyes tracking her like I’m already doing the math. “Because you don’t act like someone trying to get away.” A faint smirk. “You act like someone who wants to see what happens next. You taunt, and challenge. You don’t react like normal prey. You’re fucking different.”
“And you hate different,” she shoots back, immediate and unimpressed.
“No,” I say. Flat.
She swallows, then lifts her chin. “Then why the hell does it bother you?”
“Because different means I can’t read you,” I answer. “Means I can’t control how this goes.”
She laughs under her breath, sharp and cocky. “Ah. So you don’t like giving up control. You don’t like that, with me, you’re not actually in charge.”
“Yes.”
She tilts her head, eyes flicking to my mouth like it’s an accident she’s not apologizing for. “Are you always this goddamn serious?”
“Only when it fucking matters.”
Her smile tugs sideways. “And does this matter?”
More than it fucking should.
I don’t say it.
Don’t even bother pretending I’m in control of this anymore because we both fucking know I’m not.
“Fuck,” I mutter, stepping in hard. My hands slide under her thighs and lift her like I’m done negotiating with fucking everything. With Kross, with her, fuck, even with myself. I set her on the sink with a sharp clink of porcelain and metal, then drop to my knees because standing still feels like lying.
“Jesus—” she gasps, startled, hands scrambling, grabbing the counter, the mirror, anything that’ll keep her steady.
Through the mask, I look up at her and spread her legs without ceremony, irritation tightening my jaw as the blade follows, tip dragging down to her inner thigh. She whimpers, and squirms, but not away.
There's no fear in her eyes.
Just that look.
That hungry, reckless fucking look that pisses me off and gets me harder at the same time. She likes this. She wants it. Wants me. And fuck, that knowledge hits like gasoline.
