I wiggle my wrists, trying to find leverage to slip from his grasp, but it’s not feasible. I kick my feet back, trying to hit a shin or ankle, but when I connect, nothing. He doesn’t budge.
He’s wrapped around me, cutting off any viable solution.
“There aren’t any options. Your size makes it impossible.” I know he won’t hurt me. I don’t know how, but I know it, yet being this helpless brings out a desperation in me. I need to know that I could escape if it came down to it, and it’s shamefully obvious that’s not the case.
“Is that what he would tell you? To just give up?” he demands. There’s an underlying edge to his voice that I haven’t heard before.
“Of course not,” I say, my words coming out breathy and anxious. “He would teach me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m showing you how to stand on your own without a crutch.”
“I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own!”
“Show me, then. Get out of my grasp,” he orders.
I twist my body sideways, arching my back, trying to break his grip. Pain radiates up my arms as I try to wrench my wrists from his lethal grasp, the violent and urgent need to escape sinking its claws into my skin.
I can feel moisture pooling in my eyes, and I hate it.
“Admit it,Heathen. You can’t.” He abruptly releases me from his grasp, causing me to fall forward.
I catch myself and stand on shaky legs, rubbing my wrists from where his brutal hands gripped them so roughly. I bet he gets off on his superiority over my helplessness. “You love that I can’t.” I put all my rage and self-doubt into the glare I direct at him. “Seeing someone so close to Ambrose fail at your feet is probably the highlight of your day. You hate me on sight just by association!” I yell.
I can feel the tremor in my lip and the tears of frustration building in the corners of my eyes. I hate that when I get mad and overstimulated, I angry-cry.
Kingston just stares at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
It’ll be a cold day in hell before I cry at his feet. I sink my teeth into the sides of my cheeks and relish in the pain.
“Watching a more than capable soldier be weakened by someone who claims to care for her is not my idea of a good time,” he answers coldly.
He turns to walk away, clearly dismissing me.
I guess our little training session is done then. It’s amazing how quickly he can shut it all off and disregard someone. I’m even slightly envious of it. I should just let him go. Give thanks this sparing session is over with, grab my shit, and leave. But I’m so angry that he thinks he knows me. That he summed me up and found me lacking. I’ve also never been good at knowing when to keep my mouth shut.
“If you were half the man Ambrose was, I wouldn’t be staring at a retreating back.”
One second, he’s walking away, his stride composed and calm. Finished with me. The next, my hair is wrapped around his fist, head tilted to the side, his fangs sunk deep into my neck. He’s dominance, and I’m submission. He doesn’t remove his jaw but lingers. Rather in wrath or restraint, I’m unsure.
I can feel his breath hot against my skin. I squeeze his forearm like a lifeline. Both knees buckle beneath me, but he holds me up with one arm, his fingers digging into my ribs, while the other presses my body into his. There is no space left, no escape offered. I have no choice but to surrender to his taking.
I pushed, and he responded. I should be afraid, or at the very least, repulsed, but I’m not any of those things. I’mintrigued. I feel a pulse between my thighs, sharp and shameful in its timing.My body is committing the ultimate act of betrayal, and I have no control over it.
Suddenly, without warning, he releases me.
He tears himself away, fangs slipping free, causing me to flinch. Blood smears his lips and runs down his chin. His eyes are glassy as if in a blood haze. Both pupils are blown wide, drowning out any color other than black. They flick to my neck and then back to me.
Pain flares, white-hot, and I stagger to the side, grabbing the spot his mouth had been. Kingston makes no move to come near me, but his eyes track my every move. I watch in horror and captivation as he wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks dazed. Blood lusting. Ruined.
“Fuck.”
I point an accusing finger at him. “You bit me!”
“It won’t happen again,” he says, each syllable deliberate and methodical.
I pull my hand away and stare at the blood coating my fingers.
