Chapter 16 #2
My hands explore the planes of his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle and scars. Each mark tells a story I suddenly want to know, but I force the curiosity away. Knowledge leads to understanding, understanding to attachment. I can’t risk that—not when I need to destroy them all.
Poe’s fingers graze the underside of my breast, his touch setting me on fire even through the lace of my bra.
“Don’t talk,” I murmur. “Just keep touching me.”
His eyes search mine, but his hands resume their exploration with deliberate slowness.
The water laps around us as he lifts me effortlessly with one hand, positioning my lower body more solidly on his lap.
He guides me into rocking against him until I’m practically grinding my pussy against his stomach.
I feel how hard he is behind me, but he makes no move to shift the friction to where his body so obviously wants it.
Instead, he traces patterns on my skin with his other hand, despite how much that must hurt his injured shoulder. Each touch is reverent in a way that makes my chest ache.
This isn’t the reaction I expected. I want him rough and mindless, something to push away the vulnerability his words created. Instead, Poe gives me gentleness that threatens to unravel me more thoroughly than any force could.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, breaking my own rule about talking.
His thumb traces my lower lip. “Doing what?”
“Being gentle. I don’t need gentle.”
A shadow crosses his face. “Maybe I do.”
The admission catches me off guard. In this moment, with water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and vulnerability etched across his features, he looks nothing like the dangerous Alpha who only a day ago slashed a man’s throat without hesitation.
“I’ve never had anyone look at me the way you do,” he continues, voice barely audible over the water. “Like you see past all the blood on my hands.”
“Your hands are plenty bloody,” I say, trying to rebuild the wall between us.
He nods. “Yes. And so are yours now.”
I think of Darius, of the knife sliding into flesh. Of the strange satisfaction I felt watching life drain from his eyes.
“Does that bother you?” I challenge.
“Not at all.” His answer is immediate, certain. “Nothing makes me happier than the thought of you being able to protect yourself.”
If only he knew.
I kiss him again, harder this time, demanding rather than asking.
My hips move of their own volition, only spurred on by his hand encouraging me to move faster and harder, despite the gentle way his lips move against mine.
I can’t my hips so the hard length of him slides through my cleft. Even through the warmth of the water and the thin fabric of my panties, his flesh is as hot as forge fire.
Poe responds in kind, his restraint finally breaking. His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him as our mouths battle for control. This is better—this I understand. Desire without complication, pleasure without promise.
But even as his touch grows more urgent, there’s still something careful in the way he holds me. Like I’m precious. Like I matter beyond what my body can give him.
And that scares me more than cruelty ever could.
I don’t want him to be anything more than another monster.
The pressure inside me builds with each rock of my hips, Poe’s hands steadying me without controlling.
His lips trace my collarbone as I arch against him, chasing the release that hovers just beyond reach.
When his fingers slip between us to find my center, it takes only the lightest touch to send me over the edge.
I shatter with a cry, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through me. My fingers dig into his shoulders as I ride out the aftershocks, my forehead pressed against his. For precious seconds, I forget everything—the bonds, the plots, the pain—lost in pure sensation.
As my breathing slows, I collapse against his chest, utterly spent. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Now that he’s gotten what he wanted from me, Poe will take what he needs. That’s how this works. That’s how it always works.
I feel his arousal pressing insistently against me, hard and hot. My body is boneless, my mind foggy with post-orgasmic haze. I wouldn’t have the strength to fight him off even if I wanted to.
Poe shifts beneath me. I brace myself for him to flip our positions, to press me down into the water. But his hands slide under my thighs, and he lifts me out of the tub entirely.
He wraps a thick towel around me as tightly as a swaddle before carrying me out of the bathroom bride-style, seeming heedless of his injured shoulder.
Poe carries me down the hall to his bedroom, a space I’ve never actually laid eyes on before.
Weapons are displayed on the walls, with some looking old enough to be antiques.
Books fill several shelves, dark leather spines glinting in the low light.
I briefly notice a collection of handcrafted wooden figurines on the desk before he turns me away from it.
The bed is large but not excessive, covered in soft linens the color of deep ocean that smell faintly of driftwood and sea salt.
He pulls back the covers and places me gently on the center of the bed. The towel is whisked away in a smooth motion, that sends a chill coursing over me.
My eyes remain squeezed shut, and I fight the instinct to curl into myself as he looms over me for a long moment. I know what happens next, with me naked in his bed. I’ve more than set myself up for it.
But he surprises me by slipping away. I hear a wooden drawer opening and closing before he approaches the bed again. I tense when he gets within touching distance, but I keep my body relaxed as he maneuvers me.
A clean shirt, still redolent with his scent, is carefully pulled over my head and down. My arms are gently guided through the holes before he lays me back down and pulls the blanket up to cover me.
What in the hell?
My body still hums with residual pleasure.
I know that Poe didn’t experience his own release, but he seems entirely unconcerned with the imbalance as he prepares for bed.
I keep my breathing slow and watch through slitted eyes as he efficiently dries himself with my used towel, slips on a loose pair of pants before flicking off the lights, save for the bedside lamp.
He leans over a nearby shelf, wincing slightly as he rotates his injured shoulder, and selects a book. Then he settles into a chair near the bed, grabs a pair of wire-framed glasses and begins to silently read.
Minutes pass. He still doesn’t join me.
What kind of game is this? Logan would have taken what he wanted without hesitation. Even Cillian, for all his recent kindness, only treats me the way he does because of the bond. Ares is a wildcard that I still haven’t pinned down.
But Poe just sits reading, occasionally glancing at me with an expression I can’t decipher through slitted eyes.
Finally, after what feels like hours but probably isn’t quite that, he sets the book aside and approaches the bed. My muscles tense instinctively, but he only pulls the blanket higher over my shoulder before slipping in on the opposite side, maintaining a careful distance between us.
The space he leaves feels deliberate, an offering rather than a rejection.
I don’t understand this man. He kills without remorse yet treats me with a gentleness that none of the others have shown. He wants me—that much is obvious—but refuses to take advantage when the opportunity presents itself.
What does he want from me?
As his breathing evens out beside me, I realize with startling clarity what makes Poe more dangerous than the others. Logan wants to own me. Cillian wants to use me. Ares wants to possess me.
But Poe? Poe wants me to choose him.
And that might be the cruelest trick of all.