I hear him now.Closer.Boots deliberate, crushing undergrowth. He’s not rushing. He’ssavoring.
My pulse hammers in my throat, between my legs. Wet already. Slick.
I dart behind a thick trunk, press my back to rough bark, listening.
He stops. Inhales. I can almost see him—head tilted, nostrils flaring, scenting me on the wind.
“You didn’t climb this time,” his voice carries, amused, dark. “Smart girl.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“I can smell how wet you are from here.”
Heat floods my face, my core. Fuck. He’s not wrong.
“Getting naked, Ayla? You think that buys mercy?”
I push off the tree and run again—harder this time. Letting him hear me. Letting him chase.
His laugh is low, feral. Then the boots move faster.
“There’s my girl.”
I’m laughing, wild and reckless when he lunges.
His hand clamps my wrist, yanks me back against his chest so hard the air punches out of me. I twist, elbow flying, knee driving up. He takes the hit, grunts, spins me, slams me face-first against the nearest tree. Bark scrapes my palms, my stomach. His body pins me there—hard, hot, unyielding.
I buck. Grind back against the thick ridge in his jeans. He growls against my ear.
“Still fighting.”
“Still winning,” I taunt, breathless.
His hand fists my hair, yanks my head back until my throat arches. His other hand shoves my skirt up, rips the lace of my panties to the side with one brutal tug. Fabric tears. Dangles uselessly off one thigh.
“You canthinkyou win,” he murmurs, teeth grazing my neck. “But you’re already caught.”
I twist in his grip, get one hand free. My knife’s in my boot. I lift my leg, yank the blade free, spin out of his hold, and press the edge to the side of his throat. Just enough to prick. A bead of blood wells.
He doesn’t flinch. His eyes darken. Hunger. Pride.
His hand wraps around my throat, firm. “Cut me deeper if you want to come tonight.”
I drag the flat of the blade down his jaw instead, then lick the blood from the edge—slow, deliberate.
I pull back and his eyes lock on my mouth.
For one suspended second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches the smear of his blood on my tongue like he can’t decide whether to kill me for that or come in his jeans.
The hand at my throat flexes.
A dark, ruined sound tears out of him—half laugh, half warning.
“You know what that does to me, Beda.”
I smile, slow and filthy, still holding my knife between us. “You like it when I play with sharp things.”
His gaze drops to my mouth again. Then lower. My bra. My skirt shoved up. My thighs bare in the dark. Back to my eyes.
