My stomach chose that moment to betray me. A low, traitorous growl that echoed in the awful silence.
His eyebrow lifted.
Barely.
Just enough to communicate what words didn't need to: Liar.
Heat flooded my face.
Embarrassment. Fury. The horrible awareness that he'd been paying attention—that he'd noticed what I ate and when and probably catalogued it alongside every other detail he'd collected about me like ammunition.
"Get up."
Two words.
Soft as a blade between ribs.
I stayed exactly where I was. Perched on the edge of his bed in his house, phone clutched in my hand displaying proof of his money saving my father's life. Everything about this moment designed to remind me how thoroughly I'd already lost.
Except this.
This one, small refusal.
"Make me."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
Reckless.
Stupid.
Exactly the kind of challenge that would haunt me later.
But I was so tired of being sensible.
The world inverted before I could process movement. One second, the bed pressed solid beneath me. The next—air, displacement, the stomach-dropping sensation of being lifted like I weighed nothing at all.
My yelp cracked high and undignified, the kind of sound I'd mock if it came from anyone else.
But there was no one else.
Just me and the hard plane of his shoulder digging into my stomach, his arm banded across the backs of my thighs, locking me in place with the casual efficiency of someone who'd done this before.
Not to me.
But to someone.
The thought arrived poison-tipped and sharp.
Blood rushed to my head as he turned. My hands found his back automatically—broad, unyielding muscle beneath expensive fabric that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
I shoved against it.
Useless.
Might as well have been pushing a wall.
"Put me down." The words came out breathless, furious, muffled against the space between his shoulder blades. "Put me the fuck down right now?—"
