"I'm not yours."
His gaze darkens. "You've always been mine. You just didn't want to admit it."
I take a shaky step back, heart pounding so hard it echoes in my ears. The edge of the desk bites into my spine—cold, immovable, a stark contrast to the searing heat radiating off his body as he advances. I need space. I need air. But he stalks forward like a predator scenting blood, slow and deliberate, his gaze locked on mine with merciless intensity.
"You knew I'd come back?" I ask, trying to keep the fear that's creeping up my spine from coloring my voice.
"Yes," he says, voice rough. "I've been preparing for that eventuality."
My heart slams against my ribs with a violence that robs me of breath, each thud echoing like a war drum in my chest. A sharp, invisible hand clenches around my lungs, and for a moment, I forget how to inhale. The world tilts, my balance thrown, not from his touch—but from the raw, unrelenting truth unraveling inside me.
"You built your whole fucking existence around me? Around the chance I'd come back? You're obsessed."
He shrugs. "You call it obsession. I call it inevitability."
"That's not love. That's control."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive."
I stare at him, stunned—like the floor just dropped out beneath me and I'm still free-falling. He means it. Every fucked up, twisted word.
The certainty in his eyes roots me in place, cold and paralyzed, as if the heat rolling off his body is the only thing anchoring me to this moment. I want to scream at him, call him delusional, dangerous—but part of me knows the madness in his voice mirrors something buried in me. Something dark. Something hungry. And it terrifies me.
He steps closer. I can smell him now—wood, sweat, the faintest trace of me still clinging to his skin.
"You want to hate me. I get it. You need to make me the villain. But deep down, you know why you came back up this mountain. It wasn't for the view."
"Fuck you."
His mouth lifts in a slow, dangerous smile. "You already tried that. Didn't take."
I swing again, the slap landing hard enough to snap his head to the side. But he doesn't flinch. Doesn't curse. Doesn't even look surprised.
When he turns back to me, there's no pain in his eyes—only a gleam that's sharper, darker… dangerous. I draw my hand back for another hit, but I don't get the chance. His arm moves like a striking snake, fast and precise, his fingers clamping around my wrist mid-air before the blow can land. His grip is firm. Not punishing. But there's no mistaking the power coiled under the surface.
My breath catches, held hostage in my throat. His grip is hot and unrelenting, the contact sending a jolt through my system like a live current. My pulse skitters. The balance of power shifts in an instant—and we both feel it.
He's not smiling anymore.
"That was your last free shot," he says, voice low and edged with steel. "You want to try and smack me again, sweetheart? Be ready to take the consequences."
"I made sure you got to take that snowmobile," he murmurs. "I let you make your own way up here. Because I needed to know how far you'd go to convince yourself you weren't falling. Needed people to know you weren't inclined to save yourself. That ends now, but you should know, no one will be looking for you, until Spring thaw."
My throat tightens. "What are you going to do? Lock me up? Chain me to the bed?"
His gaze heats. "Would that scare you? Or turn you on?"
"You're insane."
"No," he says, releasing my wrist only to drag his knuckles down my cheek. "I'm committed. There's a difference."
I want to scream. To run. To claw the truth off my skin until it bleeds. But my body's already leaning into him, drawn by something primal and perverse. My spine arches despite the dread, breath hitching as heat pulses low and traitorous. I hate how easily he pulls this response from me—how desire tangles with revulsion in a sick, dizzying knot. I don't want to want him. But my body never got the memo.
"You don't get to rewrite our history," I whisper. "You don't get to pretend this was fate."
His hand slides into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back. "I'm not pretending anything. I'm carving the truth into you. Every look. Every breath. Every moan. You feel it. I know you do."
I shake my head, tears pricking my eyes.
