Someone touched her. Put their hands on what was mine. Left marks on skin I'd kissed, claimed, worshipped.
My jaw ached from grinding my teeth. Hands shook with leftover adrenaline that had nowhere to go. I'd stopped myself from killing him—barely—but the urge still thrummed beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
I wanted him dead. Would've done it too, if she hadn't stopped me.
My thumb traced the swollen curve of her bottom lip. Careful. So fucking careful not to hurt her more than she already was. But the cut mocked me. A thin line splitting soft pink flesh. Evidence of my failure to protect her fast enough.
I leaned forward before I could think better of it. Pressed my mouth to hers—gentle, controlled—and tasted copper.
Her blood.
Something primal and possessive roared through me. I swept my tongue across the split, cleaning the wound the way I should've done with antiseptic. But this felt more necessary. More right. Mine to tend. Mine to fix. Mine to claim even broken and bleeding.
She made a small sound against my mouth. Not pain. Something softer.
The adrenaline still flooding my system demanded movement. Action. Violence or sex or anything that would burn off the electric current racing beneath my skin. I couldn't stay still. Couldn't just stand here when every muscle screamed for release.
I stepped forward. She stepped back. Forward again. Back.
Her shoulders hit the wall behind the counter, and I caged her there with my body. Hands braced on either side of her head. Not touching her yet—not trusting myself to touch her when I felt this raw, this unhinged—but close enough to feel her heat. Her rapid breathing. The pulse hammering in her throat.
"Tell me to stop." My voice came out rougher than I meant. Nearly unrecognizable even to myself.
She didn't. Didn't push me away. Didn't flinch. Just looked up at me with those wide eyes that saw too much, understood too much, and still didn't run.
I caught her wrists. Pinned them above her head with one hand—gentle grip but unyielding—and watched her pupils dilate. Her breath hitched.
Good.
My mouth found the column of her throat. Traced the path I'd marked last night with lips and teeth and tongue. She trembled against me, and I pressed closer, needing to feel every shiver, every gasp, every sign that she wanted this as badly as I did.
"He saw it, didn't he?" The words came out a growl against her skin. Dark and possessive and unrepentant. "Ben. My mark."
She nodded. The movement dragged her throat against my lips.
I bit down hard enough to bruise. To leave evidence. To stake my claim where anyone looking would see exactly who she belonged to.
She gasped—sharp and breathless—and the sound shot straight through me.
My hips rolled forward before I could stop myself. Ground against her. Let her feel exactly what she did to me, how badly I wanted her, how little control I had left. Her back arched off the wall, and I pressed harder, pinning her with my body while my mouth worked across her throat.
Fuck.
I wanted her. Wanted her so badly it felt like dying. Wanted to strip her down right here in the empty café and bury myself so deep she'd never forget who she belonged to. Wanted to erase every doubt, every fear, every word her bastard father had spat at me.
She's just a kid.
You're sick.
You're using her.
You'll ruin her.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I was sick. Maybe the age gap did make me a bastard. Maybe I would ruin her just by wanting her this much.
But standing here with her pulse racing beneath my lips and her body arching into mine?
I didn't care. Couldn't care.
