My chest constricted. Rage flared hot under my ribs, but something colder followed—the kind of truth that lived in shadows, the kind I refused to drag into daylight.
She's right.
I released her. Stepped back.
The loss of contact felt louder than it should have.
Belle straightened slowly, pulling her jeans up with shaking hands. Her breath came uneven, her gaze locked on mine like she expected retaliation.
I walked around the desk instead. Circled until I stood in front of her.
Blocked her exit without touching her.
My eyes felt like ice. I could feel the shift—the mask sliding back into place, colder and sharper than before. The kind of detachment that made opponents hesitate on the ice.
The kind that made grown men flinch.
She didn't flinch.
She met my gaze head-on, chin lifted despite the tremor in her jaw.
Brave.
Stupid.
Both.
I stepped closer. Crowded her space until the desk bit into her spine and my shadow swallowed hers.
"If you want to run that mouth," I said, voice soft and lethal, each word deliberate, "I have something better to keep it occupied."
Her breath caught.
I gripped her chin, fingers firm, tilting her face up until she couldn't look anywhere but at me.
Eye contact.
Inescapable.
"You think I'm alone?" I murmured, searching her face for the crack, the moment her certainty would falter. "You're the one on your knees in my house, Belle."
Her eyes flashed—defiance, hurt, something dangerously close to tears.
But she didn't look away.
I tightened my grip, just enough to make her feel it.
"Say it again," I dared her, my voice dropping lower. "Tell me how desperate you are. Tell me how much you hate being here."
Her lips parted.
I waited.
Wanted her to fight.
Wanted her to break.
Wanted something that would prove she wasn't the only one bleeding in this room.
