Make me lose control.
That’s the real crime here, isn’t it? Not the kiss. Not the desperate rutting against the wall like animals. The crime is that Kai—this spoiled, broken, disaster of a boy—made mesubmit.
And Ilikedit.
“I thought—” Kai swallows hard. His eyes are glistening in the dim light. “I thought you wanted?—”
“Christ. You gonna fucking cry now?” I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice. I straighten my hoodie, brushing off imaginary dirt. Anything to avoid looking at him.
“Fuck you!” But the words are weak. Broken. “You were into it. You came?—”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I came because I was thinking of Haven.”
His face crumples when he hears the truth in my voice. Because it is true…to some extent. Enough to matter, anyway.
I drag in a steeling breath.
Feels good to be back in the driver’s seat again.
Until a tear races down his cheek, glistening in the floodlight like I’ve been transported to a low-budget rom-com, and this is the part where the main leads break up for all of ten on-screen minutes.
Good Wolf whimpers.
Actually fucking whimpers.
“You made him hurt. Fix him.”
I tell Good Wolf to fuck right the fuck off.
But it persists, whining away like the pussy-ass bitch it is.
“He’s drunk and confused and he just did something terrifying. Now you’re punishing him. Haven would never forgive you if she knew?—“
Haven.
Good Wolf knows it struck a nerve.“Yes! Haven would never forgive you.”
She will hate me for reducing her monster to tears in a filthy alley and walking away. She’s protective of Kai in ways she doesn’t even understand yet—ways that have nothing to do with love and everything to do with shared trauma, shared history, shared damage.
I didn’t come out here to break him. I came to punish him…and even I know I’ve gone too far.
But if I comfort him—if I pull him into my arms and whisper pretty little lies about how everything’s going to be okay—I lose something far more valuable.
Control.
Another tear tracks down Kai’s face. He wipes it away furiously, scowling at me before dropping his head to check himself.
As he tugs down his sleeves, I notice the scratches on his arms.
My gaze flicks back up to his neck. I left my own marks there, and I know he has some nail marks on his shoulder, too, courtesy of my momentary lapse in judgement.
I could chalk this evening up to a massive indiscretion, spiral, and end up slitting the girl in my basement’s throat.
Or…
Or I could stop feeling so goddamn sorry for myself and do what I’ve always done.
Prey on the weak.
