Chapter 5 #3
His fingers flex at my throat, tilting my chin up, forcing me to feel the steady beat of his pulse against my back. His body is taut, a solid cage around mine, his grip just this side of punishing.
“You don’t want me to answer that,” he murmurs.
I gasp as he pushes me down onto the dew-dropped ground, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs.
The ground is cold and rough against my back, leaves and dirt clinging to my skin, but the shock of it barely registers over the sheer presence of him hovering above me.
The air is chilly, and a bit of rain has started falling around us, moistening my already sweat-slicked skin.
He’s so close.
The heat radiating from his body seeps into mine, overwhelming and consuming. My ruined dress clings to my damp skin, plastered to me like a second skin, the torn silk doing nothing to shield me from his gaze.
Sweat slides down my collarbone, my stomach, and my lower back. I suck in a breath as his eyes follow the droplets of moisture on my chest, eyes lingering a few moments too long.
His hands bracket my face now, fingers threading through my sweaty hair, tugging just enough to make me tilt my head back, to make me feel the power thrumming beneath his skin.
I swallow, my chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts. My body betrays me; suddenly, I can’t stop shaking.
“Are you done running?” His voice is low, making a measured mockery of me.
I glare up at him, my pulse pounding against his grip. “Go to hell,” I snarl.
His lips twitch, amusement flickering in the depths of those dark, unreadable eyes.
“Already there, darling.”
And then his hand slides lower.
His fingers trace the line of my throat, dragging over my collarbone, slipping beneath the shredded fabric of my dress, the backs of his knuckles grazing my bare, damp skin—a barely-there touch, so subtle yet so devastating.
I shudder, my breath catching.
I hate him, but my body betrays me.
My fingers twitch against his chest, aching to shove him away, aching to pull him closer. My stomach coils tight, my knees clenching together, a futile attempt to silence the pulse of heat spreading through me.
His smirk deepens.
“You feel that?” His voice is nothing but sin, his fingers trailing lower still, a whisper of dominance. “That little tremble?”
I grit my teeth, forcing the words through my lips. “I hate you.”
He hums, tilting his head, watching me.
“No,” he says simply, his fingers curling around my hip and dragging me against him. The hard press of his body against my stomach, unmistakable and unyielding, sends a hot flush surging through me. A sharp, helpless sound slips out, full of rage, frustration, and fear.
Hayden chuckles, dark and low, his lips ghosting over my ear. “Admit you like it,” he breathes.
I shake my head.
His grip tightens.
“Say it.”
“No.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers twist in my hair again, yanking just enough to bare my throat to him, to make my breath hitch. To make me cry out at the sting of it. God, it hurts.
His lips graze my jaw, a cruel promise.
“Run again,” he whispers. “I dare you.”
I should.
I should shove him away, spit in his face, claw at him until he bleeds.
But I don’t. Instead, I just breathe. I breathe in his scent, smoky, warm, masculine.
I just tremble while Hayden Herron smiles like he owns me.
Because he does.
I always knew I’d never have a choice in who I ended up with. My husband could have been a horrid creature of a man. I’d be lucky if they were even easy to look at. But it was always going to be someone like him.
I pause, searching his face, digesting how hauntingly beautiful he is.
Hayden doesn’t move. He just watches me, his grip still firm in my hair, his body still caging mine against the cold and moist ground.
His breathing is steady, controlled, but I feel the tension in him.
The heat rolling off his skin. The raw, restrained power barely leashed beneath his calm exterior.
I try to steady my own breath, but it’s useless.
My chest rises and falls too fast, too unevenly, my body betraying me in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
I am shaking, drenched in sweat from how quickly I ran, half-dressed, one bare foot sinking into the mud, my other aching where my shoe was ripped away in my desperate escape. But none of it matters.
Not when he’s looking at me like that.
Like I belong to him.
Like he’s already decided I am his.
A fresh surge of anger burns through me, white-hot and violent. I shove against his chest with all the force I can muster, but he doesn’t budge. He allows me to think I might have some control.
But I don’t.
His smirk is infuriating, that sharp curve of his lips, the glint of something predatory in his dark eyes. He likes this. He likes the fight, the struggle, the way I shake beneath him, but refuse to break.
I bare my teeth, my nails digging into his wrist. “You don’t own me,” I spit, even as I feel the lie in the words.
His lips brush against my jaw, a whisper of contact, a taunt more than a touch.
“Don’t I?”
My breath stutters. My stomach clenches. I hate him for the way my body reacts to him. For the way something hot and treacherous curls low in my belly.
I twist in his grasp, but it only makes him press closer, his palm sliding down my side, fingers tracing the ruined fabric clinging to my skin.
“You think this is about ownership?” His voice is rough and smooth all at once.
His thumb brushes the hollow of my throat, a barely-there pressure that sends my pulse hammering against his touch.
I swallow hard, my fingers curling into fists. “Isn’t it?”
His smirk fades, his expression turning dark.
“You’re alive because of me.”
The finality in his words is startling.
My stomach twists, revulsion and fury tangling in my chest. I wrench my head away, trying to wrench myself free, but his grip is unrelenting. The movement only makes my breath come faster, and it forces my body flush against his; the air between us is thick and charged with darkness.
His grip doesn’t just hold me, it claims me.
His body is pressed so tightly against mine that I can feel everything, the hard planes of his chest on mine, the heat of him searing through the soaked fabric of my dress.
And lower, God help me, I feel him there too.
Thick and inexorable against the curve of my upper thigh, undeniable in its intent.
A sharp gasp leaves my lips before I can stop it, and I hate myself for the way my body reacts, the way something deep in my stomach tightens at the confirmation of his arousal.
He exhales slowly, his breath hot against the shell of my ear, and when he speaks, his voice is nothing but dark satisfaction and quiet amusement. “Now tell me again,” he murmurs, his fingers flexing over my ribs, daring me to deny what’s happening between us, “tell me how much you hate this.”
His breath is steady. Mine is ragged.
“I hate you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. I’m terrified I may have said I love it instead.
He laughs, lips brushing my wet skin.
And just when I think I might snap, he lets go.
I shake as I try to pull myself up, gasping, aching.
“Enough,” he says, his voice sharp, cutting through me like a blade. “We’re going home.”
I should run.
I should fight.
But I don’t.
Instead, I grit my teeth, pretending not to be interested in how delicious being held would feel.
He looks as though he’s readying himself to lean forward and grab me.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His smirk is slow, infuriating. “You really think that?”
I take a step back. He takes a step forward. The space between us evaporates.
“I’ll never go anywhere with you willingly,” I whisper, but my voice isn’t as strong this time. I fight myself against falling toward him. He can see it in my eyes.
Hayden sighs, almost disappointed, before moving faster than I can react. One second I’m standing, the next I’m thrown over his shoulder, my breath whooshing out in shock.
“Put me down!” I shriek, pounding my fists against his back, kicking my legs.
He doesn’t even flinch. His grip tightens around my thighs, keeping me pinned against him as he strides through the trees, unfazed by my struggle.
“You had your chance to make a decision,” he says smoothly. “You will learn to be thankful when given one.”
My heart pounds harder against my chest, and I can almost hear it over the wind howling through the branches. I can see the car ahead now, its headlights cutting through the darkness, the driver standing outside, waiting.
Panic surges again.
I fight harder, thrashing, my nails digging into Hayden’s back through his shirt. He doesn’t falter. Doesn’t slow. I draw blood.
And when I scream, truly scream, his hand comes down with a loud, hard crack on my behind, the sudden sting of his palm making my breath hitch.
“Enough,” he growls, voice low, guttural.
A shiver of fear, of fury, of anticipation races down my spine. This is the first crack in his impenetrable shell.
And then, just like that, he storms up the drive with me over his shoulder.
We’re going home.
His home.
And there is nothing I can do to stop it.