Page 29

Chapter 28

Rule

She thinks she hates this.

But her body tells me otherwise.

The tremble in her thighs. The flush blooming across her chest where her top dips just low enough for me to see the heat rising. The subtle grind of her hips beneath mine—slow, searching, betraying her need like it’s instinct.

She’s fighting it. Of course she is.

She always does.

That’s why she’s so fucking perfect .

Ruin had his fun last night. We’ve both been obsessed with her for years. She’s the only thing in this world dark enough, wild enough to match us blow for blow. The kind of woman who doesn’t leash her demons—she takes them dancing.

And fuck, we love her for it.

When she hit the tree line earlier, I watched her bolt from the back door on the security feeds like she actually had a shot. Like the forest wasn’t already mapped out with more cameras than trees and nearly as many traps. Ruin chuckled in my earpiece as she disappeared into the shadows, letting me take the lead this time.

“She’s fast,” he’d said. “But not faster than you.”

He’s watching now, no doubt—silent, still, drinking in every second of this.

But I’ve got her.

Our little storm.

Pinned beneath me with her wrists held tight to the forest floor and my knife at her throat. Her chest rises in rapid, shallow bursts, skin flushed and glowing in the faint morning light breaking through the canopy. She's furious. She’s humiliated. She’s aroused —and trying to pretend she isn’t.

She thinks no one’s ever satisfied her because no one could keep up with her.

She was wrong.

She just needed someone to take control.

Someone who could strip it from her, tear her down until all that’s left is instinct. Need. Surrender. Me. Or Ruin. Preferably both.

“You fight like hell,” I murmur, my voice low and even, letting the blade tease a whisper lower between her collarbones. “But you’ve never really been chased before, have you?”

She squirms. Not to get away. Not really.

It’s subtle. Her hips arch just enough to brush against the pressure of my body. Just enough to chase friction where I know she’s aching.

“You want to scream?” I press. “Then fucking scream. Scream because you want me to break you.”

She goes still—every breath, every muscle coiled like she’s balancing on the edge of a cliff.

I press down slightly more with the knife—not enough to hurt her. Just enough to remind her I could.

“I’m going to make you admit it,” I whisper near her ear. “That no one else could ever do this to you. That no one’s ever earned the right to hear you scream.”

My grip on her wrists tightens.

She can’t run now.

She can barely breathe.

And I won’t let her lie to herself for much longer.

She doesn’t realize how fucking beautiful she was out there.

Running through the forest like she had a prayer. Sweat clinging to her skin, breath ragged, clothes clinging to every curve like a second skin. She hit every trap like she was being tested by the gods—and kept going. Even when the leaves rained down on her head. Even when that wire yanked her legs out from under her. Even when the snare dragged her kicking into the air.

She never broke.

She just burned hotter.

And I nearly came in my fucking pants watching her.

She was art in motion—rage and desperation wrapped in skin that begs to be bruised, claimed, owned .

My cock is rock hard now, straining against the unforgiving fabric of my pants, pressed against the cradle of her hips. She feels it. I know she does. Her lashes flicker. Her hips shift again—almost imperceptible—but it’s there. She’s aching. Wet. Wound tight.

She’s trying so hard not to want this.

But her body’s already sold her out.

I know exactly what she needs.

But she’s not getting it.

Not yet.

Not until she screams for it.

Not until she begs.

I let the knife trail along the curve of her jaw, slow, reverent—like I’m memorizing her by touch. Her breath catches. Her back arches just slightly, barely perceptible, like she’s leaning into the danger.

Needing it.

I drag the blade lower, tracing the line of her throat down to her chest, just above the swell of her breasts. She shivers—not in fear. Not entirely. It’s something darker. Deeper. Hungrier.

She wants me to break her.

Wants me to pierce the surface and dig underneath the armor she wears like a second skin.

I press the knife gently against the side of her ribs, not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to make her feel it.

Her breath stutters again.

And her eyes—fuck, her eyes—they flash not with fear but need . Like she’s wondering what it would feel like if I did sink the blade into her flesh. If maybe pain is the only thing sharp enough to cut through the chaos in her chest. If it would drown out the war between pride and want.

“You want it, don’t you?” I whisper, my voice low and brutal. “The pain. The pressure. Something to override the noise in that pretty little head of yours.”

She doesn’t answer.

But her pulse flutters wildly at her throat. Her skin flushes deeper where the cold steel kisses her.

She’s so close to cracking. So close to giving in.

But I need the words. Need her to admit it.

She’s aching. Needy. Desperate.

And still trying to wear that mask of defiance like it’s not cracking beneath the weight of her own desire.

“I could fuck you right now,” I murmur, voice like gravel and fire. “Right here. With you pinned down, filthy and furious, just how I like you.”

Her jaw tenses. Her eyes flare.

But her hips shift again—seeking friction.

“I could bury myself in you so deep you forget your own name,” I continue, dragging the knife lower, just above her waistband. “And I will. But not until you ask for it.”

She glares at me, lips trembling between a curse and a cry.

I lean in, breath hot at her ear. “Scream for me.”

The blade presses in—not cutting, but threatening again.

“Beg for me to break you.”

I feel her pulse rabbit-fast beneath my hand. See the war behind her eyes.

She wants to deny me.

Wants to hold on to that last shred of control.

But it’s slipping.