"You don't know what you're talking about," he says, but there's a new wariness in his eyes.
"Don't I?" I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "I've seen the way you move. The way you watch. The way you anticipate threats before they materialize. You weren't born knowing how to do that. Someone taught you and made you into this."
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. He grabs my wrist, his grip just shy of painful. "You want to know what I am? What I've done?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "I've killed for him. I've tortured for him. I've broken people in ways they'll never recover from."
The confession hangs between us, raw and ugly and real. I should be terrified. Should be recoiling from the monster he's revealing himself to be. Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn to the darkness he's finally letting me see.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
"Because he saved me." The words seem ripped from him, each one a wound. "Because he gave me purpose when I had nothing."
I understand then—the fierce devotion, the unquestioning obedience. Blackwood didn't just employ Ian. He created him. Molded him into the perfect instrument of his will.
Just like he's trying to do with me.
Something snaps inside me—rage and desire fusing into something dangerous. I shove him hard, my palms flat against his chest. He barely moves, solid as stone, which only infuriates me more.
"You think you can control me?" I hiss, shoving him again. "Think you can decide what's best for me like everyone else in my goddamn life?"
His eyes darken, pupils dilating with something that isn't just anger. "I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need your protection." I punctuate each word with another push until his back hits the wall. "I need you to stop treating me like I'm some fragile thing that can't make her own choices."
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. In one fluid motion, he reverses our positions, pinning me against the wall, his body pressed against mine from chest to thigh. The air rushes from my lungs at the impact.
"Is this what you want, Claire?" His voice is dangerous, rough-edged. "You want me to stop holding back? Stop pretending I don't want to consume you?"
I lift my chin defiantly. "Maybe I'm tired of your control. Your restraint. Your goddamn nobility."
Something flashes in his eyes—something primal and unleashed. His mouth crashes down on mine, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my anger. There's nothing gentle about this kiss. It's all teeth and tongue and barely leashed violence. I respond with equal ferocity, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.
He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, settling low in my belly. His hands slide down my sides, gripping my hips with bruising force, pulling me harder against him. I can feel him through our clothes, hard and insistent against my stomach.
I bite his lower lip, drawing blood. He pulls back with a hiss, his eyes wild. "You want to play rough, princess? Fine."
He spins me around, pressing me face-first against the wall. His body cages mine from behind, one hand coming up to sweep my hair aside, exposing my neck. His lips find the sensitive spot below my ear, teeth scraping against my pulse point.
"I've been holding back," he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. "Treating you like you might break. Like you need to be handled with care."
His hand slides around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of his strength, of how easily he could hurt me if he wanted to. The thought sends a shameful thrill through me.
"But that's not what you want, is it?" His other hand works at the button of my jeans, dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. "You want this. The real me. The monster."
I should deny it. Should pull away from the dangerous precipice we're teetering on. Instead, I push back against him, feeling his hardness press against me.
"Show me," I challenge, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "Show me what you've been hiding."
He tugs my jeans down my hips, taking my underwear with them. Cool air hits my heated skin, making me shiver—or maybe it's the way his hand slides between my thighs, finding me already slick and ready.
"So wet," he says, his voice a dark rumble against my ear. "Is this what fighting with me does to you, Claire? Gets you all hot and desperate?"
I refuse to answer, refuse to give him the satisfaction. But my body betrays me, pressing into his touch as his fingers circle my entrance, teasing but not entering.
"Answer me." His teeth find my earlobe, biting down just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through me.
"Yes," I hiss, hating him a little for making me admit it. "Yes, damn you."
I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the rasp of his zipper. Then he's pressing against me, hot and hard and insistent.
