“Out! Now! Before I put a hole in the wall behind you to make my point.”
Caleb gave me a tired look, one part warning and one part apology, then shrugged as if to say,This is yourcircus now, and walked out with the quiet grace of a man used to navigating tempests. Where was the smooth, urbane lawyer with his thousand dollar suits, sarcasm, and the sharp smiles that could charm a confession out of a dead man? Where was the calm tactician who probably dissected courtrooms with logic and confidence? All I saw now was fury—raw, unfiltered, blazing in his eyes as if he’d set himself on fire to burn me.
“What did you do?”
I pulled out my lighter, flipped it open with aclick, and stared into the flame as the small blue core flared, steady and mesmerizing. I snapped it shut. “Youwerethere. Right?”
Killian didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed. “I told you to stay away?—”
“He had his hands on you,” I bit out, my voice sharp and low, every word burning as much as the fire still smoldering in my chest. I snapped the lighter again. Flame. Snuffed. Flame. Snuffed. “And you just let it happen.”
“Jesus!”
The rhythm of the clicks filled the silence; each flick easing the need crawling under my skin. “No one touches you.”
“I’m not a fucking damsel in distress. I can handlemyself,” Killian snarled, his voice a whipcrack of rage.
I didn’t flinch. I welcomed it—the heat rolling off him, the way his rage lit up the room like sparks off dry tinder. I needed it as much as I needed fire.
I stalked past him, knocking the gun to the side with the back of my hand. He didn’t stop me, just growled low in his throat. I reached the door, slammed it shut with a brutalcrackthat made the frame rattle.
The silence that followed buzzed with tension.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Killian snapped, voice hoarse with rage, the gun trembling slightly in his hand.
I turned to face him slowly, deliberately, and unafraid, his pulse thrumming under my skin like a war drum. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving, every inch of him vibrating with fury—and I wanted it. I needed it. The way he looked at me was as if he might destroy me and love every moment of it.
“Whatever it takes to make you snap,” I said, voice low and guttural. “To make you push me to my knees and fuck my face like you mean it.”
Then, moving fast, reckless, and unhinged, I was on him before the words finished echoing, closeenough to feel the heat of his breath, to taste the violence in the air between us. I wished he’d stayed to watch the burn with me. He could’ve taken me right there, with the inferno lighting the sky behind us. He could’ve shoved me to the ground and fucked me while the air still smelled of ash and victory. That was how sharp it had been in my veins—fire and fury, smoke and need.
And I was still hard. Still wired from the bathroom and the fire. Still not done.
I lunged, catching him off guard, shoving him back hard enough to make the breath punch out of his chest. I twisted the gun from his grip, the barrel cold and slick in my hand, and tossed it across the room.
He stumbled, caught himself too late, and sprawled across the sofa, one hand braced on the cushions, the other curled like a claw ready to strike.
“Force me to my knees!” I barked, my voice raw, demanding, almost a dare. My hands were fists, shoving, grabbing, shaking with adrenaline and hunger. I wanted him furious. I wanted him to snap. I wanted to be the match that lit him up from the inside out.
“No!”
I grinned, all teeth, feral and bright. “Come on,Killian. Show me what you’re made of. Rage suits you better than that smug courtroom mask you hide behind.” He surged up from the sofa, but I met him halfway, pressed in close, taunting. “Push me down!” I yelled at him, took his hand, and bit him, scratched at his skin, and he grew angrier, louder, and violent. He was a bigger man than me, could easily hold me in place while he fucked me and fixed me and made me feel.
I laughed—low, breathless, defiant. “Make me.”
He lunged like a storm breaking loose, his hands on me in a flash, fists full of my shirt, slamming me back to the sofa. My spine jarred on the edge, half on the cushions, half off, legs tangled, knees buckling under the sheer force of him.
“You want to be broken, Pretty?” he growled, eyes blazing. “You want to see how far I’ll go?”
His hand found my throat—not squeezing, just there, a warning, a promise—and I arched under the touch, already gone, already giving in.
“Do it!”
“You’ve got no fucking idea what you’re asking for,” he spat, pinning me.
I scrabbled and bit and fought, clawing at his arms, dragging my nails across his skin to feel himreact. He twisted my leg and shoved me down, the air knocked from my lungs with a gasp.
He was hard as iron, the heat of him scorching through layers of clothes, and I could feel the way he trembled—not with hesitation, but with the effort of restraint. His breath hitched as he hovered over me, and my heart pounded. I was on fire again—and this time, the inferno had a name.
