He hits the floor hard, gasping, broken.
"Get him out." I address his men without looking at them. My knuckles are split, bleeding. Marco's blood covers my hands, my shirt, probably my face. "And tell your boss that the next person who tries to fuck me will not leave breathing."
They scramble to grab Marco, dragging him toward the exit. Blood trails across my floor in a pattern that will need cleaning.
And fifteen feet away, pressed against the wall, between picture frames she was probably dusting, Valerie stands frozen.
Blood spatters decorate her white uniform—tiny red dots across her chest and shoulder. Her face is white. Lips parted. Eyes wide with shock.
But she's not running.
And when our eyes meet, I see it again.
That flash of something underneath the terror. Something dark she doesn't understand yet. Something that looks at violence and doesn't just see horror—sees something else entirely.
There you are, little viper.
My insides soar at that. My muscles stiffen, and I growl softly under my breath.
I should let her go. Should walk away. Should give her space to process what she just witnessed.
Fuck that.
I move toward her deliberately. Slowly. Giving her every opportunity to run.
She doesn't.
Just watches me approach with those wide brown eyes, breathing fast and shallow, frozen like prey that knows it's caught.
I stop close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that she can smell Marco's blood mixing with my cologne and sweat.
"Scared?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods. Can't seem to form words.
"Good." My hand comes up to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling her pulse hammer against my palm like a trapped bird. "I like how you look when you are terrified and scared."
Her breath catches. I feel it under my palm—that tiny hitch that could be fear or arousal or both.
"If you could run right now," I murmur, thumb brushing across her racing pulse, "would you?"
She opens her mouth. No sound comes out.
"Or would you stay?" I lean closer until my lips are near her ear, until I can smell lavender and fear and something sweeter underneath. "Would you let me see what happens when you stop fighting what scares you?"
A shiver runs through her. I feel every tremor against my palm.
And underneath the terror, underneath the shock, her pulse is racing in a pattern I recognize.
Arousal.
She's turned on.
By the violence. By my hand on her throat. By whatever fucked up chemical reaction happens in her brain when fear and desire get tangled together.
Perfect.
"That's what I thought." I release her throat slowly, dragging my fingers down the column of her neck, feeling her swallow hard against my touch.