I hear the moment he crosses over from the hardwood floor into the carpet of his study, when his footsteps go eerily silent.
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
The weight of his presence settles into the room like thick smoke. I canfeelhim without seeing him—his energy, his gravity.
“Brielle…” he says again, quieter now, teasing. “You can’t hide from me, baby.”
A spike of arousal shoots through me at his words, and I bite my lip to keep myself quiet.
He takes a step.
Then another.
I can’t even see him from where I’m crammed behind the couch, so all I can do is listen and wait.
There’s the sound of the desk chair dragging across the carpet as he checks underneath.
The rustle of the curtains is next.
I press my back tighter against the wall, my ribs aching from how shallow I’m breathing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear my pulse with how hard it’s pounding.
The room falls quiet again.
And then, he stops.
Right in front of the couch.
I freeze.
My body is taut and my breath trapped in my lungs. I don't move. Ican'tmove. It’s as if my limbs know the rules of the game even better than my mind does. The hunter is close. Any sudden movement might give me away.
But he already knows.
A slow, deliberate hand slides around the back of the couch, shifting it forward a few inches and exposing me to the room. A moment later, a strong grip closes around my wrist.
I yelp as Ambrose tugs me forward. It’s not painful, but it’s clear how much stronger than me he is. I scramble slightly, the carpet scratching at my knees, but he doesn’t give me time to get my balance before he hauls me up and over the arm of the couch in one smooth motion.
I land on the cushions with a surprised shout, and the heat of the room seems to surge around me all at once as I’m forced into the metaphorical spotlight.
He's standing over me, surveying me like the prey that I am, and his dark eyes gleam with dark satisfaction. I can only lie there, breathing hard and wondering what comes next now that he’s caught me.
“Did you really think you could run from me?” he asks in a dangerously soft voice.
I manage a small, shy smile, because I know that’s what he wants, and also because I kind of like the way butterflies take flight in my stomach at his tone.
“Careful, pet. Don’t forget, you belong to me now. I’ll chase no matter how far you run.”
The words should bother me. They’re both possessive and domineering. Combined with the fact that he used the nickname I used to hate so much, I should argue with him.
But I don’t, because none of that bothers me anymore.
In fact, Ilovethat he’s claiming me as his, because his possessiveness isn’t suffocating; it’s liberating. It makes me feel wanted but not controlled, desirable but not objectified.
He examines me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he sees every crack in my armor and is enjoying the way he’s prying me open with the gentlest touch.
Without a word, he begins to strip.
Right in front of me, with no hesitation and no shame, holding eye contact the entire time.
