I force my eyes open. Through a blur of tears, I see his face, a mask of dark fury and concentration.
"What did you find?" he grinds out, his hips pressing me hard against the wall.
"Please," I beg, the word thin and useless.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to keep from falling. I cling to him, my enemy, my captor, because there is nothing else to hold onto. "Last chance," he whispers, his lips brushing mine, a final, mocking caress.
I just shake my head, a single tear tracing a hot path down my temple. The name is a secret I will die with.Leo.
"Fine," he hisses.
The pain is sharp, a violent, tearing invasion as he drives into me. My scream is swallowed by his mouth. This is not sex. This is an excavation. He is trying to dig the truth out of my body with his. Every thrust is a question, every angle an accusation. My mind detaches, floating somewhere above the ceiling. I can feel the roughness of the concrete wall scraping my back, the bruising grip of his hands on my hips, the relentless, punishing rhythm of his body.
But in the center of the chaos my mind is a tiny, cold, clear space.Leo. Icarus.I hold onto the words like a prayer. He can take my body, but he cannot have this. He cannot have the truth.
His release is a guttural roar against my mouth, his body convulsing with a violence that shakes me to my core. For a long moment we stay like that, pinned together. His forehead is pressed to mine, his breathing harsh and ragged.
He pulls back slowly. I feel his eyes on me, searching for the cracks, for the confession. I let him look. I let him see the fear, the tears, and the pain. But I will not let him see what I’ve won.
He seems to find something in my gaze, or rather, he finds nothing. The surrender he was looking for isn't there.
Without a word, he lets my legs slide to the floor. I stumble, my back hitting the wall. I stand there, trembling. My jeans open, my body aching, the mark on my neck already beginning to bloom. He looks at me for a second longer, his expression unreadable, then turns and walks away.
The silence he leaves behind is a vast, empty battlefield. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold floor, my body shaking uncontrollably. My hand instinctively covers the pocket of my jeans, protecting the small, crumpled piece of paper within.
He didn't break me. I lied, and I survived. And now I have a name.
Twenty Four
Cassian
Thejobwasabust. A no-show. I should be pissed off, the wasted time is a sour taste in my mouth. But all I feel is a low, insistent hum under my skin. A pull. I need to go back.
It’s been less than an hour. She’ll be fine. She’s locked in. Safe. But the word feels like a lie. She’s not safe. She’s with me.
The drive back is too slow. Every red light is a personal insult. The image of her sleeping in my bed this morning, looking so fucking peaceful, is burned into my mind. It’s a weakness. Acrack in the armor I can’t afford. I tell myself I’m just checking on my investment. My prisoner. But it’s a lie, and I know it.
I take the stairs two at a time, the sound of my boots echoing in the stairwell. I pull out my key, the metal cool against my skin. I just need to see her. Just a glance, to make sure she hasn't somehow vanished into thin air. To make sure she's real.
The moment the key slides into the heavy lock, I know something is wrong.
It’s not a sound. It’s a feeling. A shift in the atmosphere of the loft that I can sense through the thick steel door. The air inside is charged with it. Fear.
I turn the deadbolt, the sound unnaturally loud. I push the door open and step inside, my eyes scanning the room in a single, sweeping motion.
And there she is.
She’s standing in the middle of the floor, frozen like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Her chest is rising and falling too fast. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, a cornered animal’s panic in them. She’s caught. Red-handed. My warning, not even an hour old, still hanging in the air between us.
Don't go looking for things that don't concern you.
I close the door behind me, the slide of the deadbolt a final, damning sound. I walk toward her slowly, my boots silent on the concrete. I don't look at what she might have been doing. I look only at her. I watch the frantic pulse beating in her throat.
"What were you doing?" My voice is quiet. Dangerously quiet.
"Nothing." The word comes out as a choked whisper. "I... I dropped a glass of water. I was just cleaning it up."
The lie is so pathetic, so transparent, it’s almost an insult. She thinks I’m an idiot. She thinks she can play me. I stop directly in front of her, invading her space, forcing her to tilt her head back to look at me. I can smell her fear. It’s a sharp, intoxicating scent.My gaze drops to the floor around her feet, then slowly travels back to her face.
