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His hands—those powerful, tattooed hands—rest lightly on my hips, his touch burning through the thin fabric of the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing. I can feel his fingers on my hips squeezing just a little and then releasing me.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel my breaths growing shallower and shallower until I’m lightheaded and dizzy.

“Draco,” I start again. “Why did you… say what you said before?”

His answer is silent, a quirk of one eyebrow.

“Why did you say you would marry me?”

“Why does it matter, Mercy?” he asks.

His eyes flick downwards, and I realize with the way I’m sitting, he can see between my legs.

He can see it, and he’s looking.

That means something, right?

I swallow hard, my mouth dry.

“I need to know, Draco. I need to know if… if it means anything to you.”

“And what if it does, Mercy? Hmm? What then?” he whispers. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“So it doesn’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying a lot of things.”

“You’re talking in circles.”

He shrugs.

“Why did you say that to me?” I ask. I’m getting angry now.

“Why’d you come out here, Mercy?”

His hands leave my hips, one wrapping around my back, pulling me flush against him, the other tangling in my hair. The smack of his chest against mine steals my breath—or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me.

“You came out here and sat on my cock. What are you trying to do? Hmm? Are you trying to make mefuckyou so you can believe that I love you and then you’ll be okay with marrying a fucking monster? Is that it, hmm? Are you a whore for love, Mercy Marie?”

I’m shaking so hard. Every thought has stopped.

I don’t know what to do or how to react.

I just lay there, flush against him, while he pours sin into me, and damnit, I like it.

Why do I like it?

What’s wrong with me?

“So you don’t love me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So… you do?”