His gaze flashes with a kind of desire I refuse to acknowledge. It’s so twisted and tempting that a shiver runs right through me.
Slowly, he lifts a lunch box I didn't notice. It’s real food this time, not just scraps. I can see steak and potatoes through the clear lid. My stomach cramps, my mouth waters, my body is already leaning forward before my brain can stop it.
Of course he fucking sees the way I'm crumbling.
I force myself back against the wall, tightening my grip on the blanket like it can save me.
He crouches in front of me, setting the box down on the ground.
"Go ahead," he murmurs.
I stare at him, waiting. There is no way this is free. There is no way he's giving me anything without a cost.
He tilts his head, looking at me, letting my suspicion become a cage.
Then, finally, he speaks.
"Saymy name."
I stiffen. My fingers curl, pride claws at my ribs.
It’s just a name — no point clinging to it out of pride. But even as I think it, I know that’s a lie. Lines were already crossed between us, and this will shatter another. He’s playing with fire. But why?
Does it even matter why? I feel myself slipping. And I don't even know if I want to stop this descent anymore.
His lips curve into a knowing smile.
"You think I don't see it?" His voice is a quiet, steady thing. "The way your hands shake? The way your breath stutters every time I walk in the room?"
I clench my jaw, grit my teeth, cursing him silently into oblivion.
"You're mine, Adora," he continues. "And you're going to give me exactly what I want."
I refuse to react. Refuse to let him see the way his words settle into every fiber of my being.
"Never," I murmur.
His smirk widens. "You don’t sound too sure about that."
Before I can even blink, he leans in close.Too fucking close.His breath skims over my cheek, and I freeze, every inch of me locking up like he's reached inside my chest and squeezed.
"You used to scream my name before, remember?" he whispers.
I swallow. Hate that I swallow.
He tilts his head, studying me. Then I feel his fingers curling around my wrist.
Panic flashes through me, just for a second. But he doesn't tighten his grip. He just runs his thumb over my pulse, feeling the rapid, uneven beat beneath my skin.
"Still fighting," he murmurs.
He pulls back, slow, with a calculated look in his eyes. Then, casually, he gets up and turns around, leaving the lunch box with me.
"Enjoy," he says.
Fuck, he owns me.
I wish I could own him, too.
