She’s standing there, arms folded, inspecting the knots she’s tied like she’s just conquered Everest. Smug. Proud. Like she’s earned a badge in tactical restraint and knotwork 101.
It’s maddening.Infuriating.
And God help me… maybe just a little bit impressive.
“When they wake up, I’m dealing with them. Understand? No more off-the-cuff heroics. We need a plan now that they’re here and—”
“Do you mean killing them?”
She says it flat. No hesitation. No tact. Just the truth, dragged into the light before I can wrap it in strategy and euphemisms.
I pause, narrowing my gaze onto her, those damn green irises of hers twinkling with mischief.
Because yes. That was the plan. Thatisthe plan.
They’re not leaving this house.
One of them laid hands on her. The other came along with intent. That’s not something I forgive, and it’s certainly not something I let walk. They’ve forfeited whatever scraps of humanity they had left. Parasites that should have never made it past childhood.
But she doesn’t need to hear the ugly parts. She doesn’t need blood staining her thoughts the way it does mine.
So, I just meet her gaze—as steady as I can—and say, “I’ll handle it.”
Simple. Final. No room for questions.
Of course, with Nell though, there’s always room for questions.
Once the men are locked away in the basement holding cell, I guide her back upstairs. It’s not about comfort. It’s aboutproximity. I need her where I can see her, where she won’t derail the next phase of this disaster with more ‘initiative.’
“How are we going to do it?” she asks, like she’s inquiring about a weekend project. “Is there a method, or are we just… improvising? And what about the bodies—”
“Notwe,” I snap, turning to face her fully. “Me. You’re staying out of this.”
I mean to land the words like a wall between us, something final. But my gaze falters and slips from her eyes to her mouth.
That mouth.
The one I shouldn’t have touched. The one that hasn’t left my thoughts since I did. The one I want to see wrapped around my cock so badly.
I tear my eyes away too late, and she notices. Of course she does. And in the space between us, something shifts again—charged, dangerous, impossible to walk back from.
What I wouldn’t give to rip the clothes from her body and remind her—slowly, thoroughly—how to obey.
But I can’t.
Because that would mean surrendering control. And with her, control is the only thing keeping this from becoming something dangerous and irreversible.
She doesn’t need pleasure.
She needs protection.
And yet, she makes that distinction nearly impossible. Infuriatingly sexy. Recklessly bold. A walking storm I didn’t ask for but can’t seem to step away from.
She’s chaos incarnate—loud, impossible, intoxicating—and every instinct I have is screaming to either pin her to a wall or lock her in a safe and throw away the key.
But she isn’t mine.
Can’t be.
