17. Rylan
17
RYLAN
S ome lines aren’t meant to be crossed.
And yet, standing in the dim glow of my study, watching Seraphina watch me, I know I’m about to shatter the ones I built.
She’s pushing me.
Again.
Her defiance burns like a blade against my throat, daring me to react. Daring me to lose control.
I should have thrown her out the moment I saw her at my desk, hands where they didn’t belong, fingers ghosting over the past I refuse to acknowledge.
I should have been furious.
And I was.
But the moment I stepped too close, the moment her breath hitched and she refused to back down—everything changed.
Now, she’s standing in front of me, chin tilted up, fire in her eyes, and I fucking hate her for it.
Hate that I can’t decide if I want to punish her for her insolence or kiss the fight out of her.
My fingers twitch at my sides.
She notices. Of course, she does.
"You can glare at me all you want," she says, voice smooth but breathless, "but I’m not going to apologize."
I exhale sharply. "For breaking into my things?"
"For wanting the truth."
My jaw tightens. "You don’t want the truth, little thief. You just want to see how far you can push before I break."
She steps closer.
The space between us shrinks, the warmth of her body teasing the edges of mine.
"Then break."
Her whisper is a dare.
A challenge.
And gods help me—I take it.
I move before I can think about it, one hand snapping out, gripping her waist, yanking her flush against me. My other hand cups the side of her face, fingers threading through the wild strands of her hair, tilting her head up.
She doesn’t resist.
She leans into me.
That’s the fucking breaking point.
I crush my mouth against hers, claiming, devouring.
Seraphina burns.
I feel the fight in her, the sharp gasp swallowed by my lips, the way her nails dig into my arms, dragging me closer.
She meets me head-on, without hesitation, without fear.
It’s a battle, all teeth and heat and the war we’ve been fighting since the moment we met.
I don’t kiss her like a man offering affection.
I kiss her like a man claiming something he has no right to want.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling, clawing, refusing to let me set the pace. She’s not passive in this.
She’s not waiting to be wanted.
She’s taking as much as she’s giving.
And fuck, it undoes me.
I press her back against the corner of my desk, caging her in, trapping her beneath me.
She gasps into my mouth, not in protest, but in something raw and reckless.
I drink it in.
I lose myself in it.
And then—her teeth graze my lower lip.
Something snaps.
I grab her wrists, pinning them above her head, forcing her still, forcing her to feel the full weight of what she’s doing to me.
Her breath stutters.
Not out of fear.
Out of power.
She knows exactly what she’s done.
Her gaze locks onto mine, lips swollen, chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths.
"Let go," she murmurs.
I don’t.
I can’t.
I can’t let go.
She shifts, testing my hold, her body taunting me with its warmth, its shape, its fucking defiance.
"Let go," she says again, softer this time. Dangerous.
I lower my head, dragging my lips along her jaw, drinking in the way she trembles beneath me.
"You think you can handle what happens if I do?" I murmur against her skin.
Her breath catches.
But she doesn’t back down.
She tilts her head, baring her throat.
A silent invitation.
A mistake.
I bite down, just enough for her to feel it, for her to know.
Her pulse shudders.
"Try me," she whispers.
And gods help me, I do.
My lips crash against hers again, harder this time. Deeper.
The kiss turns rough, messy, spiraling into something beyond control.
She meets me, challenges me, refuses to be overtaken.
She wants this fight.
She wants me.
And fuck, I want her too.
Too much.
Too deep.
Too wrong.
The realization hits like a blade to the ribs.
This is a mistake.
I rip myself away, chest heaving, hands shaking as I put distance between us.
Seraphina remains where she is, breathless, blinking up at me as if she’s just as wrecked.
But she isn’t confused.
No.
She knows.
Knows what I just let slip through the cracks of my control. Knows exactly what I want and exactly how much it’s fucking killing me to not take it.
She swallows, stepping forward. "Rylan?—"
"Don’t."
My voice is hoarse, raw.
A warning. A plea.
I turn away, raking a hand through my strands, forcing myself to breathe.
I can’t.
I can’t do this.
I grip the desk, knuckles white.
"Get out."
The silence between us is heavy.
Then—a sharp exhale.
I hear her move, hear her hesitation, hear the way she lingers.
But in the end, she leaves.
The door clicks shut.
I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing myself.
I should have stopped sooner.
I should have never touched her.
Because, despite all the warnings, all the reasons, all the fucking risks?—
I already want more.