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“You betrayed me!” I shriek with rage, swallowing the tremor in my voice.

His hand shoots up, catching my wrist midair as I rear back again. This time, he’s faster.

I gasp, but I don’t retreat.

His fingers tighten around mine, making it clear I’ve crossed a line. I know it, too, but my pride won’t let me apologize quite yet.

“Careful,” he growls. His grip slides down from my wrist to thread our fingers together. “You’re not the only one who bleeds.”

His body presses against mine. His breath is hot on my cheek. The coil of want winds between us, taut and undeniable.

I rip my hand from his—not to escape.

To grab the collar of his shirt.

To drag him to me and kiss him like I mean to wound him with it.

My lips brush his, soft at first, then I pull back, searching his eyes, those eyes that call to me like a siren.

I should push him away.

I should remember why I ran.

I should hold onto my rage, my vengeance—my identity as a DeLuca.

Instead, I melt into him, my resistance crumbling like a sandcastle against the tide of want.

“You destroyed everything,” I breathe. The words tremble, but my grip on him only tightens.

“And I’d do it again,” he says, low and certain—then his mouth crashes into mine, and this time, I let it.

There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling tight. Mine shove beneath his shirt, nails scraping into his skin. He bites my bottom lip—hard. I gasp and kiss him harder.

His lips move against mine with desperate hunger, coaxing my mouth open. His tongue slides against mine, and I wither against his. One hand tangles in my hair, and the other presses against my lower back, pulling me closer to him.

My arms wind around his neck, fingers clutching at his short hair, pulling him like I could absorb him through my skin. A whimper escapes me as his teeth catch my bottom lip again, tugging gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my chest as he pushes me back against the wall again, devouring me like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that can save him.

But no.

Not this time.

This time, I take control.

I spin us around mid-kiss, the momentum catching him off guard, and walk him backward across the room. My hands are fists in his shirt, dragging him with me, step by step. His legs bump into the edge of the leather armchair by the window—the one where he waited for me like a predator in the dark.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I press a finger to his lips and with my free hand, push him down against the chest. He falls back, his breath catching, and looks at me like he’s truly seeing me for the first time.

I swing one leg over his thighs and lower myself into his lap, straddling him.

His hands move instinctively to my hips, but I grab his wrists, pinning them to the arms of the chair.

“Not yet,” I whisper against his mouth. “You don’t get to touch me unless I say.”

His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with heat, but he doesn’t fight me. His restraint is a challenge, a dare to see how far I’ll take this.

I roll my hips against him, slow and deliberate, and feel him harden beneath me. The friction sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.