Page 34 of At Your Mercy

He didn’t grunt, didn’t curse. He justlookedat me, even as my knife hovered at his ribs, even as his other hand fisted in my sweater and yanked me closer.

“Finally,” he murmured, breath brushing my cheek. “Thought you might never try.”

My chest heaved. “Shut up,” I growled.

The knife pressed harder, but my hand trembled. His eyes flicked down, catching it, and when they lifted again, there was something dark and knowing in them.

“You’re shaking.”

“Because I—” I bit it off, shoving him harder against the wall. My thigh pressed between his legs. Too close. Too—God, it was wrong. This was all wrong.

His grip tightened on my wrist until the knife wavered, the tip dragging against his shirt. He leaned in, voice low and commanding, cutting through my growing panic like a wire pulled taut.

“Do it, then. If you can.”

The world narrowed to the heat of him against me, the sharp edge of his stare, the thud of our hearts colliding in the small space between our chests.

I hated him. I hated that I could feel his breath mix with mine, hated that my body betrayed me with a quiver that had nothing to do with fear.

“Fuck you,” I spat, but my voice broke on it.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “That’s the plan.”

The knife slipped in my grip, not from his strength but from mine faltering. And in that instant, with my arm twisted, my body caged against his, I realized with sick, sinking clarity—

I couldn’t kill him.

I didn’t want to seduce him, or trick him, or anything of the sort.

I wanted something much worse.

The blade was still between us, caught awkwardly in my hand, pressed against his ribs. One twitch could end it. One slip, one surge of willpower.

But Wes’s eyes held me there, like gravity itself had taken his side. Calm, unflinching, daring me to try.

“Go on,” he said, voice steady as stone. “If that’s what you really want.”

My throat closed.It is. It is. It has to be.

I pushed harder, but not enough to pierce. My wrist trembled, and he felt it—of course, he did. His grip tightened, forcing my hand just slightly higher, just slightly off course, so the knife was at his chest instead of his ribs. Close enough that if my arm gave out, it would be his heart that I pierced.

“You’re hesitating,” he murmured. “Do you know what hesitation means?”

“Shutup,” I snarled, though it came out raw, ragged.

“It means you’ve already made a decision.”

Heat ripped through me—anger, shame, something else knotted so deep I couldn’t name it. I shoved into him harder, my chest slamming against his. The knife shook in my grip, still poised, still unspilled.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear, his breath maddeningly calm. “You don’t want to kill me. You want to see what happens if you don’t.”

My head spun. My body felt split between two hungers—end this, or surrender to something far more dangerous.

“Say it,” he coaxed, not demanding, not mocking, just steady, patient. “Say you want to.”

“I don’t—” My voice cracked. My fingers slipped on the hilt.

“Yes, you do.”