Leila swallowed but remained silent. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of a response.
Makros inclined his head, regarding her like a problem to be solved. Then, wordlessly, he reached over to undo his belt in slow, measured motions.
Leila's pulse accelerated.
She had expected this to occur, but expectation didn't prepare her for the thrill of it happening.
Makros came closer, loosening the leather from his belt loops. He trailed the tip of it along her leg, watching her muscles tense.
"You think you can run away from me?" His voice was low, even, but she picked up on the tension beneath the words.
Leila expelled a hard breath through her nostrils. "I think I can survive without you."
The belt whipped across the sheets beside her, a dangerous warning.
“You don't get to decide that.” Makros knelt, gripping her jaw. "You're mine. It doesn’t matter what you think."
Leila forced a bitter, humorless laugh, lips contorting into a quasi-smirk. "Belong? I don't belong to anyone, Makros."
His grip tightened. "Then I'll have to demonstrate."
She didn't fight when he rolled her onto her stomach. Didn't fight when he mounted her back and pinned her down with the weight of his body. Fighting at this point would do nothing but fuel his hunger.
No. If she was going to come out on top, she had to endure it.
The first whip of the belt was not unexpected, but it still ripped a shocked gasp from her lips. He did not pause. He followed it with another and then another, each one measured out. Controlled. He made sure it was enough to hurt, enough to remind her that she was at his mercy.
He was punishing her, undoubtedly, but there was something more going on here. Makros was not trying to hurt her—he was trying to break her.
He was going to be disappointed.
Leila clenched her teeth, not willing to give him the satisfaction of crying.
Makros leaned in, his lips against the shell of her ear. "Tell me, Leila... Do you regret running?"
She breathed unsteadily. "No."
A low laugh. "Stubborn as ever."
The belt fell to the floor, replaced by his hands. His hands were burning flame on her battered skin, tracing the bruise like an artist examining his masterpiece.
Leila wished for her body to be quiet beneath him. She wouldn't let him catch the shiver in her hands, the caught breath when he moved.
"Fight me harder," Makros breathed. "I enjoy the chase."
She tilted her head slightly to look into his eyes. "And one day, I'll get to see you bleed."
Makros grinned. "We'll see,dolcezza."
And then he kissed her, slow and deep, taking her as he always did.
This kiss was meant to make her ill. She was supposed to bite his mouth off, to make him bleed. But she didn't. And that frightened her more than anything.
Leila's body betrayed her, growing numb instead of fighting, absorbing instead of rejecting. Fists bunched in the sheets, nails gouging deep, trying to anchor herself in the real world.
Makros wasn't kissing her, he was consuming her, reminding her that he took every square inch of space she occupied. His lips slid with a slow measurement, testing, teasing, tempting her into a reaction she refused to give.
She hated him. Hated the way his warmth seeped into her body, the way the scent of his skin, of dark spice and smoke languished on hers like a signature.
