Page 34 of Silent Schemes

Let him see what he's done.

Let him see what he's started.

"This doesn't change anything," I say, but my voice shakes.

"It changes everything." He moves to his desk, muscles in his back rippling, the scratches I left gleaming with fresh blood. "Call your father. Tell him you need more time. Tell him I'm harder to crack than expected."

I reach for the phone, but he stops me, spinning my wrist to pull me against him.

The knife I dropped earlier is somehow in his hand now.

"Not yet," he says, the blade cold against my throat. "We're not finished."

My pulse hammers against the metal.

This is what I trained for—violence and seduction intertwined.

But training never prepared me for wanting both.

"You like the knife," he observes, trailing it down from my throat, over my collarbone, between my breasts.

The torn shirt falls open further. "Your breathing changed. Your pupils dilated."

"I like danger."

"No, my little ruin. You likemydanger." The blade catches on the fabric, parts it completely. "There's a difference."

The cold metal traces patterns on my skin, never breaking it, just reminding me how easily it could.

His other hand grips my hip, thumb pressing into the bruise he left earlier, and I can't stop the sound that escapes me.

"That's it," he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. "No pretending. No performance. Just you."

The knife clatters to the floor as he lifts me onto the desk, papers scattering.

His mouth is on mine before I can protest, hungry and demanding.

I bite his lip hard enough to draw blood, and his growl vibrates through both of us.

"You want to know what happens in forty-eight hours?" he says against my mouth. "You'll be mine completely, or you'll be gone forever. No middle ground."

His hands are everywhere, leaving marks that will last for days, evidence I can't hide from my father.

I should care.

Instead, I pull him closer, nails raking down his chest, adding new wounds to his collection.

"You're assuming I won't kill you first," I gasp.

"You've had dozens of chances." His teeth find my throat. "You won't take the next one either."

I want to argue, but then his hand slides higher up my thigh and coherent thought becomes impossible.

This is nothing like the clinical seductions I've performed before.

This is raw need, dangerous, and addictive.

His mouth finds mine, demanding and possessive, and I hate how eagerly I respond.