Page 162 of Endgame

She flutters her eyes open, staring at me in the dark.

Profound, visceral pain is what I find in them.

Pain that my belt, hand, or collar didn’t put there.

The throbbing in my head transforms into something violent. Vicious.

Murderous.

“Talk to me.”

She tips her face up to get a better look at me. “Talk about what?”

“About whatever it is that’s bothering you. You have something to say, you say it.”

“Fine.” Her determined gaze is goddamn adorable. She sucks in a deep breath. Holds on to my cheek as if I could ever walk away from her. Not anymore. “Who was she?”

“She’s none of your concern.” I don’t mean to snap or glower at her. I don’t mean to resurrect this wall between us.

Aurora doesn’t see it that way, and it’s my fault. My ribs crack when she flinches at the change in me.

I wish I could give her what she needs to ease her mind.

I wish I didn’t feel so dirty, airing out my family’s secrets.

“I’m your wife.” Her breath trembles. “Your secrets are mine too. That’s why you keep pushing me away, isn’t it? Because of them. And…it’s more than that.” Her lashes flutter, her mouth pulling down. “My gut says I’m connected to you, your secrets. You have to tell me.”

My defenses snap into place, hard and instinctive. I’m no longer a man unraveling. I’m a sardonic bastard wrapped in spite and fear.

I know exactly what I must look like to her, just as I know what my hand feels like when it curls around her throat, firm and possessive.

“Cute.” I squeeze, needing her, hating that I do. “Pretending we’re equals. Daring to demand I open up instead of giving me what I want. What I deserve.”

She screams when I crush my mouth to hers. It looks like a kiss, but it’s not. It’s sweeter, sharper.

This is war.

This is Aurora, strong, gorgeous, fierce. She bites my lip to draw blood. Her nails rake down my arm, desperate to mark me.

All it does is make me want her more.

I change the angle, taking her lip between my teeth as I do.

A groan slips out of her, rough with pain and need.

I kiss her harder, claiming her pain and body as mine.

She moans into my mouth, her hips grinding into me. And yet her small fist pounds against my chest.

She’s a contradiction in motion. She’s alive, and she’s mine.

When I pull back, it isn’t so she can catch her breath.

I need to see her. What I’ve done to her.

Her bright eyes breathe fire. A thin strip of blood on her bottom lip is the evidence of my brutality. Fuck me, I’ve never been this hard. This famished.

“I could kill you in your sleep for this,” she growls, punching me. “For hiding shit from me. No, I wouldn’t kill you. I couldn’t. What I could do is—is?—”