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Years marked by jealousy, misinterpretation, and yearning for what he knows I cannot give him.
I dodge again. This time, his knuckles brush my collarbone, close enough that I feel his heat. Then he lunges, abandoning precision for speed, and that’s when it happens.
His fist slams into the side of my ribs. Pain erupts through my torso, hard enough to steal the air from my lungs.
I didn’t dodge fast enough.
That’s when I knew I’d had enough.
He comes at me again, riding the momentum, but this time I move first. I catch his forearm before the punch can land, twist my body into his space, and use his forward drive against him.
My hand grips his shoulder.
My leg hooks behind his.
I turn sharply and slam him to the floor. His back hits the floor with a hard, breath-knocking thud.
The sound echoes in the dark office.
Before he can recover, I’m on him.
I straddle his hips, knee anchoring him in place. He thrashes immediately, trying to buck me off, but adrenaline makes him reckless. I catch one wrist, then the other, and slam them both above his head against the hardwood.
He fights; of course he does. The resistance is immediate, instinctive, his body arching beneath mine as if the floor itself is an insult he refuses to accept. His chest rises and falls in violent pulls of air, each breath scraping out of him as if it hurts to take it.
His eyes blaze up at me, feral and bright, not defeated but burning with anger, humiliation, and something hotter tangled together in that dark stare.
It makes him look more dangerous, more alive, more… beautiful.
He twists his wrists in my grip, testing the restraint, testing me. There’s coiled strength in the movement, and I feel the tendons flex under my palms, feel the raw power he’s holding back from ripping free. I tighten my hold. Not enough to truly hurt him, but enough to remind him that I am stronger like this. That I chose not to overpower him earlier. That I am choosing it now.
He looks devastating pinned beneath me. Uncontained energy forced into stillness. The tension between us isn’t just physical; it hums, electric and unstable, as though one wrong shift will turn this back into violence or into something far more dangerous.
My ribs ache where he struck me, a dull, spreading throb that pulses with every breath, but I ignore it. Pain is familiar and manageable.
Him?
He’s not.
I lean down, keeping his wrists pinned with one hand while the other comes up to his jaw. My fingers press into his cheeks, firm, unyielding, forcing his face toward mine. His skin is warm. Warmer than it should be.
“That’s enough,” I say. My voice is steady but also a command wrapped in restraint.
“No. Fuck you,” he spits. “Don’t tell me what to do, you moron.”
The word shouldn’t get under my skin, but it does anyway.
“Listen carefully, Maksim,” I say, my voice lowering, temper bleeding into it despite my effort to stay composed. “I’ve tolerated your bullshit, your temper, your threats, your dramatics. But you do not get to break into my office, point a gun at me, hit me, and then insult me.”
My fingers tighten on his jaw, forcing his head still when he tries to jerk away. “So you’re going to calm the fuck down… or I will calm you down myself.”
His eyes widen, a storm of shock and something electric flickering there, but I’m not finished. I surge closer, close enough to map the faint freckles dusting his pretty nose, a silver stud sitting on it, glinting like a forbidden star, the dermal piercing slashing across his cheekbone, the eyebrow piercing making his face a brutal masterpiece, striking and savage.
He’s beautiful in a way that feels almost violent. The heat in his gaze crashes over me, overwhelming, like a tidal wave eroding my resolve.
“And trust me, spitfire.” The nickname slips free, raw and unbidden, from the dark corners of my mind where I had blocked it. “You do not want me to start responding the way you’re asking me to.”
The nickname hangs between us. I didn’t mean to say it. I’ve never said it out loud, but it fits him too well. It always has.
