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I step into him harder.

He gives ground—one step, then another—because I make him. Heat rolls off his body, coating my skin like a second layer. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t give him anything he doesn’t earn back.

His shoulders hit the barn pole with a solid thud. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lift his hands. Just watches me with that brutal, unreadable calm that always makes my stomach tilt.

I raise the knife and press it to his throat.

A bead of sweat slips down his chest. My hand trembles once—once—before I lock it down. The barn hums around us: wood creaking, stove popping, the crow screaming like it knows exactly where the blade rests.

I draw the knife a fraction.

Skin parts. A thin red line blooms. Immediate.

He tilts his chin up, offering me better access. Something settles in me. Not fear or thrill, but decision.

This isn’t losing control. This is choosing it, and I don’t wonder who else might feel the shift.

“You told me to come at you.” My voice scrapes out rough, breath burning between us. “So I did.”

Something moves behind his eyes—approval, hunger, something like relief strangled before it can breathe. The pole holds his back. The knife holds his throat. But the thing holding him together feels thinner than the cut I just gave him.

“Then don’t stop now.” His eyes stay locked on mine, the blade kissing his throat. “Finish it.”

The knife stays at his throat. My arm hums—not with fear, but with power. The blood gleams, a single bead sliding down his skin like it knows where it belongs.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t inhale.

Doesn’t reach for control. This is what terrifies him—not that I could kill him, but that I might not need to. He could take the knife from me. We both know it.

He doesn’t.

He just lets me hold his life between my fingers.

“Finish the lesson, little crow.” His voice stays low, steady, cruel enough to make my pulse jump.

Not a dare. Not a challenge. The sound of a man braced for impact.

My heart slams hard enough to hurt. Heat coils low in me—fear, want, control—twisting into something that feels terrifyingly right. I should step back. I should pull the blade away.

Instead, I lean in. Just enough for him to feel my breath. Just enough for the space between us to sharpen.

The vein beneath the blade jumps. His eyes drop to my mouth—slow, starving—like he’s memorizing the shape of a sin he promised himself he’d never touch.

Malek moves. Not away.

Into me.

Fast and burning, his hand closing around my wrist—not to stop the blade, but to keep it there, steel still pressed to his throat as his mouth crashes into mine.

The world fractures.

This isn’t a kiss. It’s collision. Heat and hunger slamming together, his mouth rough and reckless like he’s been denying himself oxygen and finally stopped pretending he could survive without it. A broken sound tears out of me before I can swallow it.

My free hand slams into his chest, not to push him away. To hold on.

He’s all heat and muscle beneath my palm, ribs lifting hard with each breath. He hauls me closer, dragging me into the hard line of him like wanting me is a force he can’t contain.