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But she’d lied.
He leaned forward, forehead to the tile, watching the red water slowly turn clear. His black hair was wet against his forehead, draping over his eyes. Water ran down his face, over his nostrils and down his lips. He rested his hand flat on the tile, fingers splayed. The water went from pink, to pinkish, to tinged, to completely clear.
For a few moments, he continued to watch the clear water run down the drain. The tile rippled uncertainly underneath the current as water splashed on his feet in a continuous pattern.
She’d feared his touch then, feared him.
As she should.
Anteros turned off the shower and walked back out to the bedroom. Frankie was still fast asleep, oblivious to the predator toweling off just feet away. Wearing only a small tank top and thong, it was nothing like what she’d been wearing the past month, hardly the negligees and lingerie Anteros had commanded her to wear. It was reminiscent of the jeans and shirt combo, somehow utterly Frankie.
Anteros tossed the damp towel to the floor. His hair was wet, the waves falling across his eyes and blocking his view of Frankie. He shook his head, tossing the damp hair back. He should do it now, while she slept.
That would be a mercy.
But he fucking couldn’t, and for the first time in weeks, he acknowledged the lie to himself: he never would. He thought of the faces of The Council, each one an amalgam of surprise and indignation, of the years that they had expected to have but had realized they’d lost in that single second, of the fury at realizing it was Anteros who took it from them.
That would be Frankie's face.
He glanced back to the shower, thinking of what Frankie had revealed to him that day. In the beginning, when he’d first taken her, he could fight the emotion, like trying to fight off an invader. Whenever it appeared inside him he tossed it aside, claimed it as something else. Even in the shower, when the emotion had really taken root, it was odd and foreign.
Now it was like Frankie was completely inside of him.
Whether it was love or his destruction, he didn’t want to fight it anymore.
With a low exhale, Anteros slid in next to her, pulling her into his arms. She moved closer to him, her skin meeting his, warm and soft. He burrowed his nose into her neck, tightening his grip on her.
Anteros groaned. He was having a dream, a fucking great one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed. He usually slept light, to be able to wake the minute he sensed alarm. In this dream, his cock was hard and someone was rubbing it.
He groaned again, arching toward the illusion, and in that moment, the dream snapped in half and he came to his senses. The foggy haze of sleep was sucked away and reality came tearing through. He sat up in bed, expecting a threat.
Frankie was on top of him, still wearing only the small tank top and thong. He glanced to the side to see the time: three in the morning. Twenty-one hours left before the Wolves realized what he hadn’t done, before Crazy A came after her, and before he really had to choose.
Her little hands were running the length of him, making him achingly hard, making it impossible to focus.
“What’s this?” he asked, gripping her hand and stopping her ministrations.
“I can’t sleep.” She looked away. “I want you inside me.” Anteros didn’t believe in fairytales or happily ever after; after all this time, now? Now she was starting to want him? It didn’t add up. He grabbed her chin, pulling her gaze to his. She bit her lip, looking him deep in the eyes. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Look, never mind.” She tried to get off him but Anteros flipped her, pinning her to the bed. His bare chest created friction against her tank, causing it to rise and expose the skin of her stomach. In one motion he jutted his hand into her thin panties, finding her soaking.
“Oh…” she exhaled, her eyes going wide then fluttering when he plunged a digit inside of her.
“How bad do you want it?” he asked, curving the finger within her.
“Bad…” she whispered, voice hoarse. Anteros smiled. He leaned down to kiss her but she moved her head away. He raised a brow, sliding his finger out. He could take her, but then after she would do as she always did when the passion left her—she would look frightened at herself, at what she’d done, and go cold.
He’d had her moaning before, had her gripping him before. He could make her moan until she lost her voice. That wasn’t the problem. He wanted her completely.
All of her.
With a frustrated groan, Anteros let her go. At that, she moved up against his hand, as if trying to trap him inside her.
“I want you inside me,” she gasped.
“But you don’t want to kiss me?” Doubt and skepticism were hot on his tongue. Slowly she turned her head back, eyes locking with his. Her hand was feather light along the length of his arm, whispering against the skin up across his broad shoulders until it grazed his chin, along the scratch of his perfectly cultivated stubble.
