His pulse pounded in his ears, a sick, twisting heat curling in his stomach, something primal and involuntary. He hated it. Hated himself. His body had betrayed him. Again. Just like all those times before when Gerard—
This is different,he told himself desperately.This has to be different.
It was the fight. The adrenaline. The rush of blood in his veins, and the heat of battle. But it was more than that. It washer. It had to be her.
That was normal. That wasnatural.
It wasn’t like with Gerard. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t about being pinned down, powerless, while someone took what they wanted. This was abouthimwinning. Him being in control. Him forcing her down while she fought back with those blazing cat-like eyes.
It’s because she’s a woman,he repeated to himself like a mantra.That’s all this is. Normal reaction. Just hormones and adrenaline. Nothing like... nothing like before.
He clamped his eyes shut, but the images wouldn’t go away. Gerard’s weight pressing him into the mattress. The sick satisfaction in his voice. The way his own body had responded despite the fear, the revulsion, the desperate need to escape.
And now this. Nowher.
Why now? This wasn’t the first time he had fought her.
He had hit her before. Pinned her before. Humiliated her, bruised her, degraded her. That night in her bedroom back at the Institute, he had wanted her to feel as defenseless as he had been. He wanted her to suffer.
But it hadn’t felt like this.
That night, she had been beneath him, breakable. Helpless. He had been the one in control, but it had been cold control. Clinical. He’d felt nothing but rage and the bitter satisfaction of watching her break.
But this—this had been different. She had fought back, bared her teeth, refused to cower. She’d beenstrong. Fierce. And when he’d finally overpowered her, when he’d pressed her down into the hay with her fangs still snappingdefiantly...
Something in him had twisted. He rocked his head.It’s not the same. It’s not.
It was about wanting her. It had to be. Men wanted women—that was how it worked. Even when they were fighting. Even when they hated each other. Maybe especially then. The line between violence and desire, between dominance and attraction. That made sense, didn’t it?
He was just... attracted to her. Physically. In some fucked-up, primal way that had nothing to do with Gerard or the Institute or any of the sick shit that had been done to him. This was abouthimbeing the one with power. Him choosing. Him wanting.
His stomach clenched violently, his muscles still taut, his body still burning with something he desperately wanted to name as desire instead of the other thing. The thing that made him feel small and helpless and broken.
It’s attraction,he told himself again, digging his fingers into his hair and pulling hard.Just fucked-up attraction. That’s normal. That’s... that’s better.
Better than admitting that his body still responded the same way it had when Gerard held him down. Better than facing that some part of him was still that terrified boy who couldn’t control his own reactions.
And now he had a fucking hard-on, and he could pretend it was because Elora was beautiful and fierce and he wanted her in some desirable manner unrelated to trauma and everything to do with being a man who’d won a fight against a woman.
He could pretend that. Hewouldpretend that.
A deep snarl rose in his throat, and he slammed his fist into the wooden stall wall, the pain shooting up his arm. Good. He didit again. Again. Again, until the sting cut through the confusion in his mind, until he could almost believe his own lies.
It’s her. It’s because of her. Not because of him. Never because of him.
He needed to figure this out. He refused to let the past control him like this. He would burn the feeling out, drown it out, beat it into the fucking ground. It meant nothing except what he decided it meant.
And he decided it meant he wanted her.
Somehow, that felt like the lesser evil.
He slid down into the pile of hay beneath him, arms draped over his knees. His body ached from the fight, his ribs sore where Elora had slammed into him, his arm burning from the bite mark she’d left behind.
A quiet scuff of boots on the barn floor made him tense. He didn’t look up, just kept his head bowed as the presence neared. He tensed, already preparing for more ridicule, for Rell to come storming in with another smartass comment, maybe an elbow to the ribs for good measure. But when the steps slowed, measured, he knew it wasn’t Rell.
It was Violette.
Symond let out a breath and forced himself to sit up straighter, rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t just been spiraling into a panic about whether his body’s reactions made him weak or perverted. He turned his head slightly, keeping his expression half-hidden in shadow. “What, you come to tuck me in?” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but he forced a smirk anyway.
