Page 96 of Property of Scar

Like complete trust.

Like standing at the edge of a road you’ve spent years refusing to take and finally deciding to see where the damn thing goes.

Neither of us looks away.

The pull between us settles lower, deeper, trading urgency for something heavier. Then her hands find the front of my cut where leather creaks softly beneath Cali’s grip. She catches hold of it like she means to keep it, fingers curling around the worn leather and club patch with a certainty that hits me harder than it has any right to.

For eons, people have looked at that cut and seen a vice president.

A vampire.

A weapon.

A problem.

Cali just grabs hold of me, and for the first time all night, I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.

Fingers curl into the fabric like she needs something to hold onto, and I feel the moment it changes, the point where this stops being controlled and starts becoming something else entirely.

My hands follow, finding her waist, pulling her in closer without thinking about it, closing the space that has been sitting between us for far too long.

The parapet hits behind her.

I don’t remember moving her there.

One second, we’re standing in the open space of the roof, the next her back meets concrete, dust and debris flying with the impact before she’s pulling me down with her, turning it, shifting it, until we’re both moving, both adjusting, the balance tipping in a way neither of us tries to stop.

The cold air presses in around us, but she’s warm where I touch her. Too warm. Her hands are on me again, more urgent now, dragging my club cut down my arms, and I let it go without resistance, letting it fall somewhere behind me as I pull her back in at the same time, not willing to give up the contact for even a second.

Her grip tightens at my shoulders, like she’s bracing for something, and I feel the shift in her before I fully register it in myself.

My hands find her shirt. There’s no pause or careful consideration, just a decision made in the same breath I’m already taking from her mouth.

Fabric catches under my grip, then gives. The sound is sharp in the night air, tearing clean through the quiet as the material splits, my hands pulling it apart without slowing or asking.

She breaks just enough to look at me, breath unsteady, eyes bright with something that matches exactly what’s running through me. “Wow,” she says, voice edged with breathless disbelief. “You always this subtle?”

I don’t answer.

I don’t think I could if I tried.

My focus is already back on her, already closing the space again, hands finding her properly this time, skin, heat, real and immediate, and the sound she makes when I do lands hard, cutting straight through whatever control I still had left.

It’s enough.

More than enough.

Her nails drag across my back, and then pause, not because she’s pulling away, but because she’s realized something. Her hands flatten briefly against my shoulders, then shift, sliding down, finding the hem of my shirt instead. She pauses just long enough for her to glance up at me, something sharp flashing in her eyes. “Fair’s fair,” she says, voice rough, a breath still caught somewhere between words and everything else.

Then she yanks.

Fabric pulls tight, then tears, the sound quick and clean as she drags it up and over, not waiting for cooperation or asking for it.

I let it happen.

More than that, I damn well like it.

A low sound slips out of me, something that lands closer to a chuckle than anything else, the edge of it rough, surprised in a way I don’t bother hiding. “This side of you…” I murmur, voice lower now, “… I’m not arguing with.”