Page 52 of Silent Schemes

"You don't know?—"

"I know everything. I know he started training you when you were twelve. Know about the first man you killed at seventeen. Know about the room in the basement where he makes you practice." His thumb brushes my pulse point, feels how fast my heart is racing. "I know you cry in your sleep sometimes, whisper Maya's name like a prayer."

"Stop." I can't handle him knowing me this well, seeing through every wall I’ve ever put up.

"I know you came back tonight even though Vincent gave you an out. Know you could have run, but chose to walk back into this penthouse, into this trap, into my arms."

The tension between us finally snaps.

I surge up, catching his mouth with mine, and it's nothing like our previous encounters.

This is desperate, hungry, two people trying to devour each other's pain.

He releases my wrists, and I immediately tangle my hands in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.

"This is a mistake," I gasp between kisses.

"The best kind," he responds, his mouth moving to my throat.

We roll across the mat, fighting for dominance even in this.

My workout clothes tear—his hands aren't gentle, and I don't want them to be.

When he pins me again, I bite his shoulder hard enough to mark, and his growl vibrates through both of us.

"Tell me to stop," he says, even as his hands stake their claim on my body.

"I can't." And that's the truth that damns us both.

The mat burns against my back as we move together, still more fight than finesse.

Neither of us knows how to be gentle, how to love without brutality.

We're two weapons trying to find softness in each other, failing beautifully.

His hands leave bruises I'll treasure, and my nails leave marks he'll wear with pride.

"Look at me," he demands, and I do, maintaining eye contact as everything unravels between us. "This is real. We are real. Everything else is a lie."

I want to argue, but coherent thought is impossible when he touches me like I'm something precious he's simultaneously trying to break and preserve.

Every nerve ending is on fire, every careful wall I've built crumbling under him.

His hands map my body like he's memorizing territory he plans to conquer, and I arch beneath him, desperate for more.

"I can't—" I start, overwhelmed by the intensity of what's building between us.

He silences me with a kiss that tastes like blood and promises. "You can. You will. Because you're mine now, my little ruin. Have been since you walked into my casino."

His mouth moves down my throat, leaving marks that will be visible tomorrow.

Evidence. Proof that I let him this close.

The possessiveness in his touch should anger me.

I've been owned my whole life—by my father, by the Cross name, by the violence, betrayal, and bloodshed that shaped me.

Instead, it makes something wild unfurl in my chest.