My throat went dry, my heart pounding so fucking loud I was sure he could hear it.
His hand slipped between my legs, fingers brushing the fabric against my spot that ached the most, and I nearly buckled.
“Fuck,” I breathed, my voice cracking, and he smirked, his eyes gleaming with that same predatory intensity that always sent shivers down my spine.
“That’s right,” he growled, his fingers pressing harder, teasing me through the fabric. “You’re soaking wet for me, aren’t you? Can’t hide it, Amelia. Your body fucking sings for me.”
I could hardly believe that this was the same Caiden who I feared and loathed, that version of him felt distant and unknown, as if it never existed.
But that version of him did exist, and a rage overwhelmed me.
With a surge of strength, I pushed him away.
"Don't you dare," I spat, the words laced with venom. “You really think you can control me?” The spell was broken, the intoxicating haze dissipated, replaced by a chilling clarity.
His surprised expression was fleeting, quickly masked by a flicker of something akin to hurt.
I attempted to push past him, but he grabbed my arm roughly. It was a cold reminder of his current drunk state.
He leaned in again, and I finally noticed how unfocused his eyes were. “Always so fucking stubborn.” A low groan escaped his lips as his eyes devoured my form, taking in every detail. “But, I do love that fire you get in your eyes.”
I yanked my arm free, muscles screaming, and glared at him, my eyes narrowed in a fierce stare. “This is too much, Caiden. I can’t think straight when you keep looking at me like that. And touching me like that.”
He stumbled but quickly adjusted himself. For a moment, he looked as if he would pursue me again, but thought against it.
Instead, he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in his chest. "Too much? Amelia, you haven't seen anything yet." His eyes, though still slightly unfocused, held a glint of determination.
I hated the way my skin flushed, hated that I felt it everywhere, prickling and ringing, that part of me that still remembered what it was like to be caged with him in the dark, and how he smelled wild and furious and alive.
But I also hated the dread that crept under my ribs, the old, conditioned fear that said men like Caiden were built to destroy, not to love. I didn’t trust that the monster and the man wouldn’t switch places, not even now, not even after all we’d survived.
He watched me, his face a mask carved from want and something crueler. “Thought maybe you’d changed,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, eyes locked on me. “Guess I was wrong. You’re still afraid of me.”
I was afraid. Not just of him, but of myself, of what I could become when I was with him, how easy it was to dissolve into the chaos of his presence.
It was a fear that made my hands shake, because I knew, somewhere deep, that wanting him was a form of self-destruction. That if I gave in, I’d be the girl in the cage again, and the aftershocks would never end.
“Maybe I just don’t want to be someone’s obsession again,” I said, voice soft, but edged with irony. “I’ve had enough of people staking claims on me.”
He reached for me, slower this time, almost gentle, as if afraid I would shatter. His hand hovered over my face, and in that pause I tasted the bitter tang of memory.
Every time he’d ever hurt me, every time I’d wanted him to stop but also wanted, sickly, for him to never let me go.
I hated him for it. I hated myself more.
His thumb brushed my jaw. “You really want me to leave?”
I tried to speak, but it came out as a ragged exhale. “I want you to stop drinking. I want you to stop looking at me like you’re going to tear me apart.”
“I can’t do either. I’ve tried, and I can’t.” He pressed his forehead to mine, eyes closed, breath hot and desperate. “It’s like you’re under my skin. I can’t kill it, and I can’t cure it. You’re in my blood, you always have been, I’m just accepting it now.”
His warmth bled through my skin, and the urge to melt into him, just for a second, was almost as strong as the need to run.
“I’m not yours,” I whispered.
His hand slid to my throat, not choking, just holding, like an anchor, the weight of his need pressing the air from my lungs. “You can’t even say it without shaking,” he said, not cruelly, but with a kind of wonder. “You want to be, though. Don’t you?”
I stared past his shoulder, every nerve alive with a violent, traitorous yearning.
