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“Gabriel, stop!”
“Get fucked. Might do you some good.” He suddenly drops me and I stumble, sucking air into my lungs.
I’m not about to let him walk out of here without talking to me. Despite the dismissiveness of his movements and the look on his face, I step into his path and hold out a hand. Making contact with his sweaty chest again.
His eyes darken further and for a second I’m raw, scared. Then I grit my teeth and throw his arrogance right back at him.
“We have to talk. There are things I must know.”
“Move,” he grunts.
“Not until you answer some questions for me.” My heart is racing hard, pulse thundering in my ears and a small chill working its way up my spine.
“What part of get fucked do you not understand?” He stares at me intimidatingly. “Or has it been so long you don’t remember what it’s like?”
“I might not have a badge on me now, but there are ways of making you talk and I’m sure I can get you into the station in a second.” I snap my fingers. “Now, are you going to play nice or not?”
Before I know what’s happened, his hand is again at my throat and he shoves me a second time, the back of my head slamming into the wall until those black dots become swirling stars.
“I said,” he repeats, “get fucked.”
The look on his face sends my stomach spiraling down into an abyss. I’d wanted a fight. Picking one is second nature at this point, especially when he’d been semi-physical before we even got to the juicy meat of the conversion. Pushing me aside is the fastest way to piss me right the fuck off.
“Who are you really?” He gives me such a hard look I have to swallow over the out of place lump in my throat. “Who thefuckare you?”
Handsome, even if he is an arrogant prick. All that dark hair and the giant specks of gold in his eyes…his looks promise to not only break hearts but crush them beyond recovery. My chest aches and it has nothing to do with his hands on me, reminding me exactly who is in control.
Gabriel steps closer and slowly I draw in a breath, bringing with it his scent. There’s sex, of course, the musk of his sweat, and the smoke from the club. There’s also a hint of bitter spice.
The scent cradles inside of me before reaching out with searching tendrils to find the empty spaces and fill them. All of a sudden I’m trembling and it’s not from fear.
I buck against him, hating the way he dominates me. Unfortunately it brings me in closer contact and my body reacts. The attraction flashes in blinding light, carnal. Absolutely greedy and hunting.
He knows it, too.
Humiliation brings unwanted color to my face. He wants a reaction out of me, and he isn’t even going out of his way to provoke one. Like hell I’ll give him what he wants. He’s staring right through me, with one side of his mouth quirked in pure amusement. It’s worse than the sensation of being laughed at outright.
“Layla,” I say witheringly. “Sinclair.”
“Layla.”
He steals my breath with the way my name erupts from his tongue. Those eyes go darker yet and I’m not sure if that is very good or very, very bad. His smile lines deepen into a hardness I know better than to push against. Even with unbidden lust invading my body.
Against my stomach, his cock twitches and reminds me that he’s still hard under the boxers.
Gabriel smirks and the weight of his expression sinks until I feel it like a physical presence deep in my gut. “Next time you think about pushing me,Layla, you’ll remember what it’s like to feel my hands around your throat. And when I fuck you, you’re going to cry out my name, and you’re going to like how it feels to beg.”
Damn him. My eyes go wide and my heart thunders an irregular beat.
Whatever effect he’s going for…he’s accomplished.
Remembering who I am, I slam the side of my hand against his wrist hard enough and with just enough pressure on his joint to get him to release me.
“Go to hell.”
I don’t trust myself not to retaliate and push him a little bit further. Especially when Gabriel tilts his head to the side to study me.
I spin on my heel and leave the room, back down the steps and plunging into other bodies on the main floor of the club. I storm up to the bar and hold up three fingers. “Shots,” I demand. “Hardest stuff you have.”
