Page 120 of What We Burn

“What’s it to you, Eli? You’re the one who wanted me gone. The one who hated that he wanted me. The one who tried to send me away!”

“You’re right,” he says, so soft it barely registers. “I was a coward about it. And I’m fucking sorry for that. But if you think I’m going to let you take risks with your life because I can’t keep my own shit together, you’re out of your mind.”

I open my mouth to shoot back, but he moves—quick, purposeful, cutting off my words with a hand at the back of my neck. His fingers tighten just enough to let me know who’s in control. Not dangerous, but deliberate.

“Tonight,” Eli says, “we’re playing by my rules.”

THIRTY-THREE

SAGE

“You’re pissed.” An involuntary shiver works up my spine.

“Not pissed,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “Disappointed. You remember what happens when you push me, little savage?”

Heat floods my core at the memory of our first time together, and I try to look away. He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. They’ve gone dark, bottomless, and I see it there—the shadow self, the monster he thinks he is, let off the leash.

“You wanted to feel free for a day,” he murmurs. “I get it. But you don’t get to run and not expect consequences.”

I’m so angry, but I’m also melting. Fury and arousal fighting for space inside my chest. “What are you going to do about it?”

Eli moves so fast I’m gasping—one hand has me turned around, bent over the kitchen counter. The pressure of his palm at the back of my neck makes my lungs compress. He doesn’t say a word as he kicks my legs apart and shoves my dress up to my waist, yanking my panties down. He’s rougher than he needs to be, making it very clear this is not for my pleasure—at least not entirely.

I gasp as the cool air hits my behind, then his other hand is at my hip, steadying me while he gives the first stinging smack to my ass. The shock of it almost makes me yelp, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction. I bite the inside of my lip so hard I taste copper.

“This is what happens,” he rasps, the voice right at my ear, “when you don’t behave.” He spanks me again, harder. Then again. Tears sting the backs of my eyes. Part of me wants to scream yes, more. But I won’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet.

Eli’s palm presses against the nape of my neck. He doesn’t need to restrain me—I’m not going anywhere—but he does it anyway, a clear message.

Mine.

He smooths his hand over the sting on my ass cheeks, then he slides two fingers between my thighs and finds me slick, dripping.

“You don’t get to run from me.” He lets out a low, vicious noise. “You don’t get to vanish and act like I can’t find you.” He presses the fingers deeper, crooking them, dragging the edge of pain through the velvet high before pulling away and leaving me aching, empty.

“Up,” he commands. “Bedroom. Now.”

I stumble forward, legs leaden with adrenaline and the headiness of arousal. He stays right behind me, tugging my denim jacket off my shoulders as we stumble into my bedroom, slamming the door behind us with both violence and promise. My room is the same as always—bed unmade, book open on the desk, clothes on the chair like my old life waited here for me—but I can’t see any of it. All of my attention is on the drag of rope through Eli’s hands, the silence between us, the way his whole body vibrates with barely tethered need.

He tosses the coil onto the bed, then turns me to face him. My skin buzzes, my anger shrinking to a pinprick compared to the heat that rises under it. He doesn’t kiss me or say anything soft. He just grips my jaw, thumb angled under my cheekbone so my mouth can open, not close.

“You’re going to listen,” he says.

I nod.

He lets go so he can strip off my dress, then my bra, all in one motion so quick the cheap clasp breaks and the straps fly off my arms. Then he’s in front of me again, hands on my shoulders, marching me backward until my knees hit the bed.

“Lie down.”

I do. The way he says it plucks something low and animal out of me. My hands tremble as I scoot up the mattress. Eli follows, knee on the bed, and grabs the rope. I can’t look away.

He takes my wrists and binds them above my head, cinching a knot tight, then loop after loop, threading it through the headboard.

I tug at the bindings, testing them, not because I think I can slip free but because the certainty of being caught, being perfectly inescapable, sends a shock of liquid fire through my entire body.

He sits back, surveys his work, and I feel his gaze touch every bare inch of skin, lingering on my throat, then lower. I’m still angry, somewhere under the thrumming pulse of want and dread, but I’m so much more exposed than furious.

There’s nowhere to hide, nothing to do except face what’s coming with both hands anchored overhead.