Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
PRIMSYN
The meal passes in strange, tense silence punctuated by awkward attempts at conversation. I ask about his life before capture, and he gives short, clipped answers that reveal little. He was a hunter. He lived alone. He had no family left.
Each answer feels like a tiny victory, even if they're barely more than fragments.
"Did you always live in the wild?" I ask, cutting into the roasted vegetables on my plate.
"For the last few years. Before that, I lived in a settlement. A small group of humans trying to stay hidden." He pauses, his jaw tightening. "Lactari patrols found them about three years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?" His eyes meet mine, hard and challenging. "Or are you just saying what you think you should?"
I set my fork down, considering my answer. "Both, perhaps. I'm sorry for your loss. But I'm also aware my apology changes nothing. Doesn't bring them back. Doesn't undo what was done."
"At least you're right about that." He takes a drink of water, his throat working. "Most Lactari I've seen don't even pretend to care."
"I'm not most Lactari."
"No." His gaze travels over my face, assessing. "You're not. I can't figure you out. One minute you're all ice and control, telling me I'm property. The next, you're inviting me to lunch like we're...something."
"Maybe I don't know what we are anymore." The admission escapes before I can stop it.
Oliver leans back in his chair, studying me with those dark eyes that see too much. "You're scared."
"Excuse me?"
"Of this. Whatever this is. You're terrified." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Makes two of us."
He's right, and I hate that he can read me so easily. I've spent forty years perfecting my mask, my control, the impenetrable walls around my heart. One human shouldn't be able to crack them after a couple days.
But he has.
"I don't do this," I say. "Get close to anyone. Let people in. After my husband died, I promised myself I'd stay alone."
"Then why break that promise now? For a bull?" The word is bitter on his tongue.
"Because you're not just a bull." The truth spills out, unstoppable. "You haven't been since I saw you on that auction block. I told myself you were, tried to convince myself, but I've been lying from the start."
Oliver's expression shifts before he shuts it down. "Don't. Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make me hope." His voice is rough, almost broken. "It's cruel. I can handle being property. Can handle being used. But don't make me hope for something more and then rip it away."
The pain in his words cuts deeper than any blade could. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "You should go back to your room."
"Yeah. I should." But he doesn't move.
Neither do I.
We stare at each other across the table, the food forgotten, everything forgotten except this moment. This impossible, dangerous moment where I could step back and rebuild my walls, or I could step forward and let them crumble completely.
"Primsyn?" My name is a question on his lips. A plea.
I move before I can think better of it, rounding the table until I'm standing beside his chair. He looks up at me, his breath coming faster, a mix of confusion and desire written all over his face.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit. "I don't have a plan. I just know sending you back to your room right now feels wrong."
"Everything about this is wrong." But his hand reaches out, his fingers brushing the silk of my skirt. "We're wrong."
"I know."
"I should hate you."
"I know that too."
His hand fists in the fabric, pulling me closer. "I do hate you."
"Yes." I lean down, my face inches from his. "But that's not all you feel."
"No," he breathes. "It's not."
The kiss happens without conscious decision, without thought or planning. Just his mouth on mine, desperate and demanding, tasting like anger and want. My hands tangle in his hair, his grip on my waist tight enough to bruise.
It's nothing like last night. This is raw and messy and real; all the walls we've both been hiding behind crash down at once.
Oliver stands without breaking the kiss, his body pressing mine back against the table. Dishes clatter, a glass tips over, but neither of us cares. His hands are everywhere, like he needs to prove I'm real.
"This is insane," he mutters against my mouth.
"Completely." I bite his lower lip, making him groan.
"We shouldn't..."
"I know."
But we don't stop. Can't stop. His mouth moves to my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear, and my head falls back with a gasp. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly and soaking my undergarments.
Oliver makes me feel like I'm burning alive.
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs teasing the underside of my breasts through the thin fabric.
I arch into the touch, shameless and desperate for more.
His lips pull from mine and descend to my breast, my nipple.
He sucks hard, insistent, teeth grazing through the wet cloth, and I choke out a gasp, my body trembling.
The suction and the sharp sting of his teeth bring it to a rigid peak beneath the fabric.
Oliver lifts his head, eyes dark with hunger. "Fuck!"
Then his mouth crashes back to mine, more demanding this time. His hands work at the fastenings of my dress with surprising dexterity for someone who claims to hate me. Or maybe because he hates me. Maybe all that rage needs somewhere to go.
I help him, my fingers trembling as I undo buttons and ties. The dress pools at my feet, leaving me in just my undergarments. Oliver's gaze rakes over me, hungry and possessive in a way that makes my core clench.
"You're beautiful," he says again, like the words are pulled from somewhere deep inside him. "I hate that you're beautiful."
"I hate that I want you." I reach for his shirt, pulling it over his head. "I hate that I can't stop thinking about you."
"Good. We are in agreement." His hands span my waist, lifting me onto the table. Plates and silverware crash to the floor. "We can hate each other. Just don't stop touching me."
I pull him between my thighs, reveling in the feel of his skin against mine. His mouth finds mine again; his kiss is brutal and claiming. This isn't gentle. This isn't sweet. This is two people who should be enemies giving in to something neither of us can control.
His hand slips up my thigh, and I realize with a start how far this has gone. How far I'm willing to let it go.
"Wait." I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heart hammering. "Wait."
Oliver pulls back immediately, his chest heaving. "What? What's wrong?"
"I..." How do I explain this? "I've never...with my husband, we never..."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "You're a virgin."
Heat floods my face. "It's ridiculous, I know. A woman my age, married for fifteen years. But he never wanted me that way. Never touched me."
Something softens in Oliver's expression, the anger giving way to something gentler. "It's not ridiculous."
"He preferred servants. Younger, more pliant."
Oliver's hand comes up to cup my face, surprisingly tender. "You deserved better than that."
Tears prick my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. I’ve never cried over my marriage. Nor have I ever let myself feel the rejection, the loneliness of all those empty years.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I whisper. "With any of this. With you."
"Neither do I." He leans his forehead against mine. "But we probably shouldn't figure it out on your dining room table."
A surprised laugh escapes me. "Probably not."
We stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air. The moment stretches, fragile and precious but also terrifying.
Finally, Oliver steps back, reaching for his shirt. I slide off the table, aware of my state of undress, of the mess we've made. Shattered dishes litter the floor. My carefully controlled lunch had devolved into chaos.
Fitting.
I gather my dress, tugging it into place, trying to salvage some shred dignity. Taking his hand, I lead him out and head toward his room. We are going to finish what we started.