I shift my weight, pressing my shoulder into the rough bark behind me. I don’t move closer. I don’t need to. I can hear every ragged breath.
I can smell her.
Fear-sweat.
Adrenaline.
Warm skin.
Something soft beneath the anger—a scent I’d know even if I went blind.
It hits me hard enough that my pulse kicks.
“Fuck,” I breathe, low and amused. “You smell like you woke up thinking about me.”
She’s shaking, pacing, snarling at shadows.
And I’m the shadow watching her unravel.
She screams again:
“SHOW YOURSELF!”
My smile widens.
I almost do it.
Almost step out.
Almost give her exactly what she’s begging for.
But not yet.
Not when she’s this volatile and gorgeous in her fury.
She thinks she’s calling me out?
Thinks she’s in control because she’s finally angry?
No.
No, baby girl.
She’s exactly where I want her.
I drag a slow breath in through my nose, letting the forest carry every piece of her to me—the sweat on her neck, the fear still clinging to her spine, the anger bleeding through her skin.
“Little sister,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”
She steps deeper into the trees, bare feet crunching on dead leaves, shoulders squared like she’s ready to fight a ghost.
Me.
She’s fighting me.
And God—the way she does it—the way she snarls and curses and throws every seam of her sanity at the dark—My hands flex at my sides, a slow, involuntary response.
Four years inside a cell didn’t kill my control.
