My palms itch to tighten around her wrists. To force her to break. “The only thing you’re getting close to is the end of my fucking rope.”
“You’re concerned that Eliseo was in my apartment,” she continues. “Concerned forme.”
“No.” My jaw tightens. “I’m annoyed.”
“Why? Is he the person you spoke to this morning? The one you’re protecting me from?”
“At the moment, you should be more concerned about who’s going to protect you from the threat in front of you, not the one that’s a hundred miles away.”
“I’m not worried about you,” she says while plastered against a window, with her fucking wrists imprisoned by my hands.
“You should be.”
Her smile is a blade—sad, pained, but taunting. “You’re losing your grip.”
I tighten my hold. “My grip is just fine,” I snarl, even though we both know she didn’t mean it literally. “You think you saw the worst of me downstairs with the deckhand?Piccolina, you have no idea.” My mouth dips to her cheek, voice dropping to a growl. “Would you like me to demonstrate,again, exactly what happens when I stop pretending to be civilized?”
A tremor rolls through her, slight yet undeniable, her lashes fluttering just once before she pins me with those storm-gray eyes.
She’s not unaffected. Not even close.
Her chest lifts, taut with restraint, the war between instinct and pride crystal clear.
She should look away. Break eye contact. Flinch.
Instead, barely louder than a breath, she whispers, “Go ahead.”
Fuck.
She isn’t merely baiting me—she’sdaringme. Drugging me. Offering herself up as a sacrifice. Like she wants me to burn her to ash just to prove I still have the match.
But I’m worse than fire.
I’m a fucking powder keg. And her presence? A lit fuse.
My body remains locked and braced. But inside, I’m a storm of craving and carnage.
She’s too close.
Too fucking beautiful.
No woman has ever held a candle to Isla Cross. She’s all sleek strength wrapped around impossible softness. Barbed wit and unshakable conviction.
She kills me by simply existing.
And the way she looks at me.Jesus.As though she already knows what I’m thinking. As if she sees past the armor. Beyond the cruelty. Straight to the war zone I’ve been barricading her from.
My hunger for her claws at my insides. Feral. Filthy. Starved. “You want me at my worst, Isla?”
She holds my stare. “I want therealyou.”
I sneer. Falter.
I’ve spent years convincing myself I could live without her. That I could keep her at arm’s length.
And now she’s here. Willing.Wanting. Whispering my undoing with the weight of a cursed prayer.
“Fuck it.” I crush my mouth to hers, giving her the punishment she craves. Teeth, tongue, breath. None of it gentle. All of it merciless.