His lips curved in a smile that was both self-deprecating and dangerous. "When you put it that way, it does sound rather presumptuous."
"Presumptuous?" I repeated incredulously. "It's insane. Delusional. Completely?—"
"And yet," he interrupted softly, "you're still here. Standing in this hallway, talking to me, asking me questions. Not running, not fighting, not screaming for help. Why is that, Grace?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. Why was I still here? The door to the grounds was just down the hall. There were staff around who might help me if I screamed. I had more freedom now than at any point since my abduction. And yet...
"I don't know," I admitted, the words torn from somewhere deep and honest. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I don't hate you more. I don't know why part of me..."
I stopped, horrified by what I'd almost confessed.
"Part of you what?" he pressed, stepping closer, his eyes intent on mine.
"Nothing," I said quickly, backing away. "I need to go. I need to think."
He caught my wrist as I turned to leave, his grip firm but not painful. "Part of you what, Grace? Finish the sentence."
I looked down at his hand on my wrist, then back up at his face. In his eyes, I saw something that mirrored the confusion, the hunger, the impossible contradiction I felt within myself.
"Part of me understands you," I whispered, the truth terrifying in its simplicity. "Part of me sees you too."
His expression softened, vulnerability replacing intensity. Slowly, telegraphing his movements to give me time to pull away, he raised his free hand to cup my cheek. "Grace..."
I should have stepped back. Should have broken his hold. Should have run.
Instead, I did the unthinkable. I kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. Wasn't anything like the kisses I'd shared with college boyfriends or law school flings. It was angry, desperate, confused—all the emotions I couldn't express finding outlet in the press of my lips against his.
For a heartbeat, he remained frozen, clearly shocked by my initiative. Then he responded with a hunger that matched my own, his hand sliding from my cheek to tangle in my hair, holding me to him like he was starving for it.
The kiss deepened, turned carnal. His tongue swept into my mouth without hesitation, a low growl vibrating in his throat as he backed me into the wall. His thigh slotted between mine. I gasped as he pressed in, grinding deliberately. Dominant. Demanding. Possessive.
"You're playing with fire," he said against my lips. "You think you can kiss me like that and stay in control?"
I bit his lower lip in response. He hissed and shoved his thigh harder against my center.
"Fuck," he muttered. "You're soaked."
My hands slid under his shirt, nails raking down his chest. He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one hand, the other gripping my jaw.
"Say you want it," he said, voice rough.
"Why? So you can say it wasn’t your fault?"
"No," he growled. "Because I’m not giving you what you want until you give me what I want."
I didn’t. I wouldn’t. But my hips moved on their own, grinding against his thigh.
"That’s what I thought," he said darkly, releasing my wrists just to lift me. I wrapped my legs around him on instinct, breath catching as he carried me through the hall and kicked open the door to his room.
We hit the bed in a tangle of limbs and breathless curses. His mouth was everywhere—my throat, my collarbone, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.
He ripped my shirt over my head. No slow unbuttoning, no hesitation. Just raw urgency.
"You want this? Then show me. Use me. Fucking take what you came for."
I pushed him back, straddling him, grinding down against the hard line of his cock. His hands flew to my hips, guiding, squeezing.
