Page 162 of Only for Him

But he didn’t exactly drag me kicking and screaming, did he?

No. Never. I was always a good little accomplice. Even from the very start, he said I’d lie for him.

And I did.

Even when he brought me a man who didn’t deserve the fate we designed for him, what did I do?

I played along. Spilled his blood like the rest of them.

Red stains his skin, brighter than a goddamn sunset. For a second, his eyes widen, pure shock.

Then, he lunges, ferocious as a god I’ve dared to turn my back on.

I barely have time to breathe before he slams me into the bookshelf, knocking everything over. My wrists hit hardwood, bones sparking.

I try to fight, but he’s already on top of me, good arm pinning both of mine. The bad one bleeds, but he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Let go,” I snarl, twisting under him. Because fuck him for always touching me when I don’t say he can, fuck him for always trying to fuck the sense of out of me every time I get a grip.

Fuck him foreverything.

He laughs in my face. The sound is empty, a bark from the bottom of a well.

“You wanted this, little viper? You wanted to see what I look like when I’m not playing nice?”

No, I know what that looks like. He thinks his violence surprises me? Thinks this rage is new?

Fuck that. I’ve always known.

Because it’s like looking in a goddamn mirror.

He presses in, his hips a threat. Every cell in my body riots against him—except the ones that remember how good it feels to break for him. His breath is hot and wild on my throat. I shove at him, but he’s unmovable.

His mouth is at my ear, voice low and wet. It still does things to me, still brings a curl of desire to my belly, and still makes my nipples tighten and my clit throb.

“You want me dead so bad? Here.” He wrenches the gun from my hand and presses it to his own head. My finger is still trapped in the trigger guard. “Do it. Finish the job.”

He shoves my hand, hard, so the muzzle leaves a dimple in his skin. I can feel the pulse in his jaw, frantic and alive and all for me.

I can feel him breathing through me, like my lungs were made to mirror his. My finger twitches on the trigger.

I want to do it. I want to end him, end us, end everything that’s tearing me apart. End the throbbing between my legs, the ache in the back of my throat. But even now, I don’t know who that would kill more: him or me.

But the gun is suddenly heavier than the earth.

I can’t.

I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anything. I also need him like nothing else because he knows me like no one else.

And he’s willing to give me things I’ve never even dared to name.

He sees it. Of course he does.

His face twists, disgusted. With me? With himself? With the whole fucking world?

He yanks the gun from my hand and flings it across the room. It skitters under the couch, lost to us both.

He presses me harder into the shelf, the wound in his shoulder leaking down onto my shirt. The blood soaks the cotton, hot and clinging like a second skin.