"Bryce is in the hospital," I say, my voice sharper than I intended. "The news says his brakes failed. That he might never walk again."
Nathan's expression doesn't change. He simply watches me, waiting.
"It was you," I continue, taking a step closer, anger and fear warring inside me. "You did that to him."
He stands slowly, moving around the desk with that predatory grace that makes my heart race for all the wrong reasons. "And if I did?"
The casual admission—the complete lack of remorse—should terrify me. It does terrify me. But beneath the fear is something darker, something that thrills at the power he wields so carelessly.
And that terrifies me even more.
"You could have killed him," I say, my voice shaking now.
"I could have." He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "But I didn't. I showed mercy. He gets to live—in a wheelchair, with permanent reminders that there are consequences for threatening what's mine."
My breath catches. "I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist and pulling me against him. "You are mine, Eve. You agreed to this. And part of being mine means I eliminate threats. Permanently if necessary."
He backs me up until I hit the wall, his body a cage around me. One hand braces beside my head, the other still holding my wrist in an iron grip.
"Bryce harassed you," he says, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that makes my skin prickle. "He cornered you at the spa. Followed you. Threatened you. Made you afraid."
His free hand cups my jaw, forcing me to hold his gaze.
"So I made sure he'll never be a threat again," he continues. "Just like I'll make sure anyone who even thinks about hurting you regrets it for the rest of their life. That's what protection means, Eve. Not asking permission. Not showing mercy to people who would show you none."
I should push him away. Should be horrified. Should run screaming from this man, who admits to violence like other men admit to buying flowers.
But my body is frozen, a traitorous heat pooling low in my stomach despite—or because of—the threat in his words.
"You're a monster," I whisper, and I mean it. He is. He absolutely is.
"Yes." His thumb strokes my cheek, gentle despite the steel in his grip. "But I'm your monster. And I will burn down the world for you. Do you understand?"
His proximity is suffocating. His scent—sandalwood and danger—fills my lungs. His body pressed against mine is all heat and power, and I hate that my pulse is racing with more than just fear.
I hate that some sick part of me wants this.
"I understand," I breathe, and I do. God help me, I do.
He holds me there for another long moment, his eyes searching mine for something I'm not sure I want him to find. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I see the exact moment he decides.
Then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. Not asking permission. His mouth claims mine with a fierce hunger that steals my breath, one hand fisting in my hair to tilt my head back, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
I should push him away. Should slap him. Should do anything except what I do—which is kiss him back with equal desperation.
My hands find his shirt, gripping the expensive fabric, and I don't know if I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding, possessive, and a sound escapes me that's half protest, half surrender.
He makes a low growl in response, backing me harder against the wall, his body flush against mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, feel the evidence of how much he wants me pressing against my hip, and heat pools low in my stomach despite everything.
His hand slides from my hip to my thigh, hitching my leg up slightly, and the new angle makes me gasp against his mouth. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss, consuming me with an intensity that feels like drowning and flying all at once.
I bite his lower lip—whether in retaliation or invitation, I'm not sure—and he groans, his grip on my hair tightening just enough to send sparks down my spine. The line between pleasure and pain blurs, and I'm lost in it, in him, in this terrible, intoxicating thing between us.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, and his lips are swollen from our kiss. He looks wild. Undone.
