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But it does.
Because I’ve made women cry before. I’ve walked away from ruin like it didn’t touch me. But the memory of her in the shower, water tracing her tears like they belonged there, won’t fucking leave.
And she’s standing here now, offering herself again. Letting me choose.
Like it won’t cost her anything.
Like I’m not the exact kind of man she should never trust in the dark.
But I trust her.
And maybe that’s the problem.
I step over the threshold. And she doesn’t move.
She just watches me like I’m the one who needs saving.
And maybe I do.
Her breath hitches as my fingers slide beneath the hem of the hoodie—Elias’ hoodie—tugging it up over her head in one smooth motion. I hate that it smells like him. I hate more that she chose to wear it. But I hate it most because I know I would’ve left her alone if she’d looked fragile. If she’d looked broken. Instead, she looks calm. Composed. Like she meant what she said. Like she’s not expecting me to fix her, or fall for her, or be anything other than what I am—a monster with too many sharp edges and not nearly enough restraint.
So I give in.
I crush my mouth to hers—not gentle, not sweet. Desperate. Unapologetic. I don’t kiss like someone falling in love. I kiss like someone who’s starving, who never learned the difference between wanting and taking. And she gives it to me, soft lips parting, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt like she needs something to anchor her. Like she wants this too.
The hoodie lands on the floor in a soft heap. She’s naked underneath. Of course she is.
The fire flares hotter in my veins.
She tilts her head to the side and makes a sound—a quiet, breathy exhale that’s not quite a moan—and it hits me low, punches the breath from my lungs. My hands find her waist, skim up her sides, and she shivers like I’ve whispered something filthy against her skin.
She pulls back slightly, lips swollen, eyes heavy, voice low. “Still want clarification?”
And fuck me, I do.
But not right now.
Not when her skin is warm under my palms. Not when she’s looking at me like I’m allowed to lose myself for a night. Like I can give in without unraveling completely.
So I shake my head once. “Later.”
I press her back, guiding her until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She goes easily, no resistance in her limbs, no hesitation in her eyes. And gods, that’s worse. She trusts me. She shouldn’t.
“You can stop this at any time,” I tell her, voice like gravel and heat, cracking on the edges of restraint I barely have.
“I won’t,” she says.
I’m not gentle. I don’t know how to be. But I want her like she’s the first clean breath after centuries underground. Like if I don’t have her now, I’ll unravel. So I take. I touch. I taste. And I tell myself I’ll figure the rest out later.
Tomorrow, I’ll sort through what this means. Tomorrow, I’ll find the flaw in her logic. I’ll figure out her endgame.
But tonight?
Tonight, I forget about Keira. About control. About how easily this could destroy me.
Tonight, I let her be mine. Even if only for a moment.
I crawl over her, dragging my shirt over my head with one hand, the other braced beside her hip. Her skin’s warm beneath my palm, soft where my fingers skim the exposed edge of her waist. She arches slightly—invitation or instinct, I don’t care. I take it the same way I take everything else I want.