Different appetites.
Same foundation.
Hades clapped my shoulder, grip firm enough to remind me he was built like a fucking tank. "Don't keep her waiting too long."
I stood, grabbed my bag, and headed for the showers without answering.
Because Belle was waiting.
Whether she knew it or not.
And I had every intention of teaching her what happened when she touched things that didn't belong to her.
The engine idled at a red light, my fingers drumming against the leather steering wheel in rhythmic precision.
Practice hadn't drained me.
It sharpened everything instead.
Every nerve ending hummed with restless energy that had nowhere to go except inward, coiling tighter with each passing mile between the arena and home.
Between me and her.
I could still taste the sound of Belle's gasp in the study.
Still feel the tremble in her voice when she whispered that she hated me.
The memory hit harder than it should have—sharp and vivid and far too satisfying.
I shouldn't like that as much as I did.
But I did.
Deeply.
Viscerally.
The light turned green. I accelerated smoothly, each gear shift deliberate, controlled.
Everything in my life operated on discipline except this.
Except her.
She'd looked at me this morning like she wanted to set me on fire. Eyes burning with rage instead of fear, jaw tight with barely restrained violence.
Good.
Fear was easy to manipulate.
Rage required strategy.
And I wanted more of that fire. More resistance that forced me to press harder. More surrender earned instead of given.
I wanted her again. Wanted the taste of her defiance on my tongue. Wanted to see how far I could push before something inside her finally snapped—not broke, but transformed.
The hunger built with each block that disappeared behind me. Not just physical.
Deeper than that.
