Ezra catches it before it can fall, his fingers brushing my collarbone in the process. The brief contact sends electricity racing across my skin, and I shiver despite the fever building beneath my flesh. The absence of the collar leaves me feelingexposed, more aware of my nape than I was before I carried the weight of his possession for days.
His forehead rests on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry we didn’t track Harcourt faster. So sorry he made it as far as he did.”
My shoulders shake. “I was so scared.”
“I know you were.” He kisses my nape. “But you were strong, too. You delayed him long enough for help to arrive. You survived.”
I turn back to face him, one hand rising to touch my naked throat.
The collar rests in his palm, the metal warmed from my skin. “I never wanted to cage you. I just wanted you to stop running.”
The confession hangs between us, raw with honesty, and my chest tightens. My fingers drift to the small cut on my neck that I inflicted while trying to free myself from his claim. It’s scabbed over now, healing, but the memory of my desperation remains fresh.
He tracks the movement, lingering on the injury, and something flickers across his face, not quite regret, but understanding. Of what I am. Of what he’s done. Of what we might become together.
“Then why—” My throat tightens, and I swallow hard before trying again. “Why use it at all?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Because asking nicely wasn’t working.”
He still holds the collar, his thumb tracing the subtle circuit pattern beneath its smooth surface, the same way he’s traced patterns over my skin.
Heat pulses low in my belly, spreading outward in waves, and I step closer. “And now?”
He sets the collar on the kitchen counter, the metallic clink loud in the charged silence of the loft. Then he reaches for myhand and turns it palm up to carefully hold the key against my finger.
When the device beeps, his eyes meet mine. “No more running.”
“I’m not.” My legs tremble beneath me, Heat and exhaustion conspiring to rob me of strength. “I can’t.”
Ezra sets the key next to the collar, then lifts me into his arms just as my knees buckle, one arm beneath my shoulders, the other under my knees. The sudden shift in position sends blood rushing from my head, black spots dancing across my vision.
With a gasp, I bury my face against his throat, filling my lungs with his pheromones, while the steady thump of his heart beneath my ear drowns out the chaos of my thoughts.
He nudges the bathroom door open with his shoulder, revealing the destruction I unleashed days ago. Driven by the stench of the perfume, I had made an effort to clean up the floor so I wouldn’t be stepping on glass. But the shattered mirror fragments still fill the sink, my dried blood painting abstract patterns on porcelain. Only traces of ash remain in the bathtub.
All the evidence of my rage and desperation lies bare for his inspection.
Ezra pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene as his chest expands with a deep breath. “Should have seen what I did to my apartment after you left the first time. Had to repair every mirror in the place.”
He sets me on the closed toilet lid, my skin prickling at the cold surface. His fingers brush hair from my forehead with a feather-light touch. “Stay.”
When he turns away to turn on the faucet in the stand-up shower, I sway toward him, body following his movement, caught in his gravity.
“You haven’t been taking care of yourself.” His words aren’t accusatory, just matter-of-fact as he tests the water temperature with his wrist.
My laugh comes out brittle. “Been busy.”
He glances at the sink full of broken glass. “Destroying things?”
“Finding things,” I correct.
Ezra nods as if this makes perfect sense as he returns to me, thumbs hooking into the waistband of my boxers. My hips lift, allowing him to slide the damp fabric down my legs.
The air hits my bare skin, but any chill is overwhelmed by the furnace of my Heat. My dick stands hard between my thighs, pre-cum drizzling from the tip.
Ezra catalogs the scabbed cut on my neck, the raw knuckles from punching glass, and the dried paint and charcoal smudged across my chest. His expression tightens at the evidence of self-inflicted wounds, but he says nothing.
“In you go.” He steadies me as I step into the shower.
