The report on my desk is a disaster. Two warehouses in the northern district, the primary hubs for the cross-border distribution, are currently smoldering craters.
Silas dismantled a decade of infrastructure in forty minutes. I had to personally deal with Carlotta in the sub-basement, a task that left me feeling more like a butcher than a businessman. The information she leaked has compromised three of my best men, and the cleanup will take weeks.
I am tight. I am jagged, wired, and so incredibly angry that I can feel the pulse in my neck ticking like a bomb.
And then there is Atara.
She is the only thing in my life that isn't on a spreadsheet. She is the only thing I can't predict, the only thing I can't calculate, and the only thing that makes me want to burn the world down just to see if she keeps looking at me with that fucking fire in her eyes.
I don't go to her room to talk. I go there because my blood is boiling, and I know that she’s the only person who can match that heat.
I don't knock. I turn the handle and step inside.
She’s already halfway across the room, her eyes flashing the second she sees me. "You have some nerve! Do you honestly think I didn't see the security detail shift? You moved the perimeter guards again! I was trying to—"
I don't let her finish. I don't let her get a single word out.
I cross the room in three long strides, grab the back of her neck, and press my mouth onto hers. I kiss her until the oxygen is gone, until the tension in her jaw breaks, until she’s forced to lean into me because her legs have gone soft.
She pulls back, gasping, her lips swollen and red. "You don't—you don't get to just—"
"Make me stop," I say, my voice a low, raspy threat.
I wait for her to push me away. I wait for her to slap me.
She doesn't. She just stares at me, her chest heaving, the yellow sweater she’s wearing hanging off one shoulder. She looks like she’s vibrating. The fury is still there, but it’s mixed with something heavier, something darker.
"I hate you," she whispers, but her hand is clutching my bicep.
I move. My hand snaps up, grabbing both of her wrists and pinning them against the wall above her head. I lean into her, my hips hitting her thighs, my chest crushing the soft wool of her sweater.
"I can change your security detail anytime I want, Atara," I growl. "You were right there in the line of fire, and you froze. I can’t trust you not to be that stupid again."
"Stupid?" she snaps, her eyes flaring. "I was a hostage! I didn't get an invite to the bullet-fest, Lorcan!"
"You’re a liability," I mutter, though my body tells a different story. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest through her sweater, a frantic, drum-like beat that matches the throbbing in my own cock.
I use my free hand to trace the line of her throat. I move down, past the collarbone, to the soft, rounded swell of her breast. She gasps, her back arching against the wall. I don't need to touch her skin to know that her nipples are already hard, already aching for the friction. I can see the way she bites her lip, the wayher eyes roll back when my fingers find the sensitive spot right at the base of her throat.
"You like this," I say, my voice dripping with cold, satisfied cruelty. "You like being caught. You like knowing that as long as I have you pinned to this wall, you don't have to make any of your own decisions."
"I don't—" she starts, but her mouth falls open as I drag my thumb across her nipple through the wool.
She whimpers. A high, pathetic, beautiful sound of pure want.
"You're lying to me," I say, and I let my hand roam further, sliding down to the band of her leggings. I can feel the heat radiating off her. She is soaking wet. She has been wet since I walked through the door. "You’re furious. And you’re starving for me. You can be both. It’s a messy, pathetic way to live, isn't it?"
"Fuck. You." she says, her voice shaking.
I look at her, really look at her. Her hair is a wreck, her skin is flushed, and she is fighting me with every ounce of her stubborn soul. I want to ruin her. I want to own every single thought in that brilliant, infuriating head.
I trail my hand down, right to the center of her, pressing my palm flat against the damp, hot fabric of her leggings. I can feel her clit, hard and swollen, pressing back against me.
She lets out a choked, desperate sound, her hips grinding against my hand of their own accord.
"Lorcan..."
"Ask me," I say, holding her wrists tight against the wall.
