“Oh, fuck you, East.”
“Fuck you, Clarke.”
“You think I don’t know I hurt you?”
“I think you know and still chose yourself.”
“I was trying to survive.”
“I deserved better, dammit.”
That did it.
I snapped so hard there was no sound for the first second, only pressure, heat, and every unsaid thing inside my body rushing toward my mouth like a storm breaking glass. My arm shot out, sweeping the remaining items from the counter—a dish towel, a pen, a packet of sugar. They clattered to the floor and joined the shattered glass.
“I know, you mouthy prick,” I screamed, the sound raw and shredded, my face contorted as tears of pure fury blurred my vision. “I know!”
Easton stopped.
I stopped too, chest heaving, the world tilting on its axis.
The room didn’t.
Every sound became too loud. Every inch of him felt too close. Each breath scraped in and out of my chest like I had swallowed fire.
Easton’s chest rose and fell, fast and ragged. Mine matched it, a furious mirror. His bandaged hand flexed at his side, the white gauze already stained pink across the knuckles from how tightly he kept clenching his fist. His eyes dropped to my mouth and stayed there.
I saw the exact second the rage bled out—not into calm, but into something hotter, darker, and more desperate. I sawthe exact second he stopped pretending rage was the only thing moving through him.
I moved at the same time he did.
There was no sweet pause, no careful approach, no soft question dressed up as restraint. His good hand shot to the side of my neck as my fingers twisted into the front of his shirt, and our mouths crashed together hard enough to slam my back against the counter. Pain flashed through my hip, hot and quick, but I barely felt it beneath the vicious, glorious relief of his mouth against mine.
Easton kissed me like he was still angry enough to break something and had decided my mouth was the safest place to put the damage. His hand curved behind my neck, firm and unforgiving, angling me exactly how he wanted while I dragged him closer by his shirt and bit his bottom lip because I needed him to hurt too.
He made a rough, animal sound against my mouth, part fury and part warning, and it went straight through me, liquid and electric.
I shoved against his chest again, but this time it wasn’t to get him away.
He understood instantly, the bastard.
His arm hooked around my waist, and he lifted me onto the counter in one hard, graceless movement, sending a bowl clattering into the sink. His ribs protested, pulling a hiss from him, but he didn’t stop. He stepped between my knees before I could decide whether to curse him or drag him closer.
I chose both, my nails scraping up the front of his shirt while his mouth moved over mine, hot and brutal, giving me nothing gentle enough to ruin.
I tore away to breathe, gasping, and glared at him with my hands still fisted in his clothes. “I still hate you.”
His eyes were wild, the pale gray nearly black at the center, his mouth wet from mine and cruel enough to make my entire body clench. “No, you don’t.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
“Then stop lying with my tongue in your mouth.”
I slapped his shoulder, one hard, open-handed strike, and he caught my wrist, pinning it against the cabinet beside my head with a thud as he leaned closer. His bandaged hand braced at my waist, the heel of his palm pressing into me while his torn knuckles remained curled away. The pressure dragged a sharp, wanting gasp from me before I could swallow it.
He heard it.
He felt it.
