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“I never once claimed to be a gentleman, my sweet,” I inform her. It’s the truth. My tastes have darkened both my heart and soul and though I may be polite, there’s nothing about me that would let a woman think I’m a gentleman. “Tell me something, Scarlett. If there was anything in this world that could be given to you, anything at all, what would you ask for?”
For a long moment, she considers this, her lashes fluttering against the apples of her cheeks, and even through the smears of mud, I notice her cheeks darken with a soft, pinkish hue. A flicker of something dances in her eyes, but before she answers, it’s gone, and suddenly, she’s no longer thinking of whatever had crossed her mind.
And her final response is a lie. “Just let me go.” Her lips are parted on soft breaths as she shivers when I lean in to inhale her sweet perfume. It reminds me of a rainy morning on an overcast day—fresh, cool, and crisp—but also drenched in dirt. The contradiction is a strangely euphoric fragrance to my senses.
Tipping my head to the side, I grip her chin between my thumb and forefinger and pull her closer, so our lips are barely touching, but close enough for me to inhale as she exhales. Inadvertently connecting us for a moment before I respond, “That’s not an option. Try again.”
She tries to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go. I’ve pinned her to the door. My body snug against hers. The soft curves allowing my hard ridges to fit perfectly to her body.
“Lycan.” She murmurs my name like a parishioner calling out a prayer to the heavens above. It hits me right in the chest, in a place I didn’t think still existed within me. Women I’ve been with have screamed my name, but never with such pained need. It’s as if she’s throwing it out there, allowing it to slither under my skin, snaking its way through my veins until it finds the one muscle I’ve refused to allow to beat since the night my brother left with the woman who scorned me.
21
Scarlett
A shiver wracks through me as a lone tear escapes my lashes and trickles its way slowly, gently, down my cheek. Lycan’s quick to react, the pad of his thumb tracing the salty emotion before he locks his gaze with mine as fire blazes in his green eyes.
Shock escapes me as a gasp stumbles over my lips at the action. He’s so close, watching me, waiting for a reaction, but I’m too tired to say anything more. Fighting now will only anger him, and I’m not sure I can handle punishment under his hand right now.
“I’m tired,” I whisper. More so that he’ll leave me be, and I’ll be able to think about what he said tonight. Not the promise of him and his friend Kahn taking me, making me pay for running, but that there’s more at play than I can figure out.
“Tomorrow, little red, I’ll come for you. Be ready at nine. Don’t be late because I don’t appreciate tardiness.” His voice, a tone of deep, frustrated gravel forming the words, as if it’s been kicked up from tires traveling too fast over the driveway. A reminder that everything about him is dangerous. Confirmation of just how unmatched we are, him being too dark, and me, well, I’m fragile under his hold. Not because I’m a woman, but because just a touch from Lycan as he trails my cheek with his knuckles, and I feel as if I’m about to buckle under the electric current coursing through me.
“Why?” I question in a whisper so soft I’m not sure he heard it. His mouth quirks, a slow, seductive smirk curling his perfect lips as he takes me in, from chin to hairline and down to my mouth where his heated gaze lingers for a long moment. With another movement, he is so close I’m almost certain he’s about to claim my mouth with his, and in that few seconds, I want him to. I want to bend to him. I want to leap onto my tiptoes just to feel those full lips on mine.
But he doesn’t. And my heart plummets, embarrassment at my thoughts coursing through me. Every inch of my body aches from the stupid escape which the man before me thwarted.
“Tell me, Lycan,” I command, attempting to sound stronger, more formidable than just the girl he sees when he looks at me. Because I’m certain that’s what I look like right now, dirty and muddy.
He shakes his head slowly, and I’m not sure if it’s his answer, or if he’s at war with himself trying to figure out what to say to me. He drops his hand from my chin, and I immediately miss the connection. It’s stupid and immature to ache for a man who stole me, who had to have a contract just to get me to marry him. And perhaps I’ll pay for the insane thoughts I have toward him, but just for now, I allow myself to consider what being his wife would be like.
