33
Mine to Break
—Kira—
Something in me snapped, and anger took the reins.
I moved before he could say another word. In one motion I pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, my weight settling over his hips, my palms landing against his chest.
I slapped him.
Once. Sharp. The sound cracked the air between us.
“Stop this self-sacrificing bullshit,” I said, breath shaking but voice steady. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
The second slap was nothing but a tease.His nostrils flared, his jaw locked, and I felt the rigid heat of him straining throughhis clothes. My whole body responded, raw and alive, like I’d just seized control of something wild and barely leashed.
I grabbed his throat.
His pulse leaped under my fingers, wild and hot. His breath stuttered once. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t even blink. Just held my stare, eyes dark pools of hunger and challenge, like he’d let me choke the life out of him if I asked nicely.
His hands hovered at my thighs, fingers flexing like he was fighting not to grab. Waiting for permission.
“But,” I added, tightening my grip just enough to make my point, “I’m going to have to tame you. You can’t slaughter every idiot who gets too close.”
“Yes I can,” he replied, voice steady, almost amused.
I leaned in until my forehead rested against his, our breaths mixing.
“But you won’t,” I snarled. “Next time someone touches me and you want blood, you ask. And if I say yes? I’ll help you hide the pieces.”
“Do you understand?” I whispered, voice lethal.
His throat worked under my hand. “I understand,” he rasped.
His grip on my thighs turned vicious—claiming, starving—like he’d already surrendered to the monster we’d become together.
I felt the thick weight of him, straining now, fully hard beneath me. The heat between my legs turned molten, dripping onto the fabric of his sweats as I rolled my hips, shameless and aching. His breath stuttered, and I knew he could feel all of it—how badly I wanted him, how soaked I already was for him.
I caught the hem of his hoodie and yanked it up sharply. The fabric bunched in my fists, tension snapping between us. His eyes flicked to mine, understanding immediately. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his arms, letting me strip it off him. I dragged it over his head roughly, tossing it aside.
“Malaya,” he said, voice rough. “You’re still unwell.”
“Do I look unwell?” I asked.
Then I untucked the towel from my body and let it fall onto the bed in one sharp motion. I grabbed his hand before he could react and pressed it firmly against my breast, forcing his palm to feel the heat of my skin.
“Do I feel unwell?”
His eyes locked onto mine as he squeezed, slow and firm, his thumb brushing across my nipple. His gaze turned ravenous.
I grabbed his hair with both hands and made him look at me.
“I heard your apology,” I said, fingers curled tight in his hair, “but it doesn’t fix the way you made me feel. Like I was a fucking toy you were done playing with.”
His expression didn’t shift away. If anything, it deepened with guilt.
“I acted like a coward,” he murmured. “You want to punish me? Do it. Fuck me up. Make me bleed for it. I’ll thank you with every breath.”
