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My heart pounds against my ribs. The tension radiating from him feels different than his usual controlled anger. This is raw and something I've only glimpsed in our most heated moments.

“Let go.” I keep my voice low and steady.

His fingers tighten. “You're playing with fire.”

“It was nothing. Viktor was just being decent—something you should try sometime.”

The growl returns, rumbling through his chest. His other hand comes up to grip my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. The darkness I find there makes my knees weak.

I attempt to pull away, but Erik's grip remains firm. His lips brush against my ear, his hot breath sending tingles down my spine.

“You weren't complaining yesterday morning when my tongue made you fall apart,” he whispers, his voice rough. “The way you begged, the sounds you made...”

I clench my jaw, fighting the rush of heat his words trigger. “That was different.”

“Was it?” His fingers slide up to cradle my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. “You seemed to enjoy my treatment quite thoroughly. Or did you forget how many times you screamed my name?”

My face burns at the memory. “Let me go, Erik.”

“You didn't want me to let you go then.” His thumb traces my pulse point. “You wanted more. Demanded it.”

I close my eyes, trying to steady my racing heart. “That was a mistake.”

“Your body says otherwise.” His words ghost across my skin. “You're trembling right now, just thinking about it. About how good it felt when I made you?—”

“Enough.” I cut him off, but my voice shakes.

“You can play nice with Viktor all you want,” he continues, “but we both know whose touch you really crave.”

The worst part is that he's right. I feel myself getting wet, responding to his proximity, his words, and the memories he's evoking. Still, I won't give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Are you done?” I manage to keep my voice steady despite the heat coursing through me.

His low chuckle raises goosebumps on my arms. “For now.” He releases me and steps back. “Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.”

I watch Erik's broad back as he stalks away, his movements fluid and predatory. My fingers dig into my palms, nails biting crescents into the flesh. The ghost of his touch lingers on my throat, and I hate how my body still thrums with need.

Bastard. He thinks he can just manhandle me, remind me of our encounter, then walk away? The arrogance of it makes my blood boil.

I slam my fist against the wall, welcoming the sharp sting that helps clear my head. The concrete is cool against my forehead as I press against it, trying to slow my racing pulse.

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Just breathe.”

But all I can think about is his rough voice in my ear, the heat of his body pressed against mine. The way his fingers traced my throat with just enough pressure to remind me of his strength. My thighs clench at the memory.

I push off the wall and pace the room, my steps quick and agitated. How dare he mark his territory like some animal? Viktor showed basic human decency, and Erik acted like I'd committed some cardinal sin.

The worst part isn't his possessiveness or his assumptions. It's that he's right—my body does crave his touch. Even now, anger warring with arousal, I want him to come back. Want him to finish what he started.

“Get it together, Katarina.” My voice sounds strained even to my own ears.

I need to focus on escape, on survival, on anything but the lingering heat between my legs and the way my skin still tingles where he touched me. But his words echo in my head, reminding me of yesterday morning, of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

God, I hate him. Hate how he can read my body's responses like an open book. Hate how he can switch from ice-cold soldier to burning passion and back again, leaving me spinning in his wake.

Most of all, I hate that I want more.

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