Chapter Twenty-Nine
Poppy
M y front slams against the surface of the door, my breath leaving me in a sharp exhale as a solid body presses firmly against my back.
His strong grip tightens around my wrist - not painful, but firm, possessive - while his other hand stays pressed over my mouth.
The heat of his palm seeps into my skin, his fingers splayed wide, controlling and unwavering. My shallow breaths hit against his hand, warm and uneven, the sound muffled and trapped between us.
I freeze, every nerve in my body buzzing, my pulse hammering beneath his touch.
My mind scrambles for clarity, for logic, for anything other than the visceral reaction currently flooding my body.
I don’t know who it is.
I do.
I should be afraid.
I’m not.
Because even in the blur of adrenaline, even with my vision swimming and my nerves on fire, I know.
I know from the heat radiating off him, from the firm grip that isn’t rough, but still unchallenged.
From the scent - clean, sharp, laced with cedar and citrus, expensive and infuriatingly familiar.
From the way my body inexplicably recognises his, even without seeing him.
The air shifts behind me, his shallow breaths ghosting along the curve of my neck.
My stomach twists. My knees feel weak.
He releases his grip.
First, my wrist - his fingers unfurling slowly, deliberately, as if reluctant to let go.
Then, his hand drops from my mouth, the warmth of his palm vanishing like a brand being lifted from my skin.
I suck in a deep, shuddering breath, my chest rising and falling too fast as I try to reorient myself, to grasp hold of the fleeting moment of freedom -
But then I spin, ready to go full-blown self-defense mode.
And he’s still there.
Frederic has stepped back just enough to let me move, but not enough to give me space. His tall, broad frame still looms, the sharp angles of his body caging me in, pressing me between him and the polished wood of the door.
The air crackles.
I should push him. Should shove him away and storm out of this room without looking back.
But I don’t .
Because the look in his eyes is something I haven’t seen before.
Something dark. Something wanting .
And my traitorous body reacts before my brain can catch up - my breath catching, my pulse skittering, my skin prickling with heat.
“What the hell -” I start, but I stop myself from saying anything further.
His blue eyes are darker, sharper, filled with an intensity that sends a hot shiver down my spine. His chest rises and falls deeply, like he’s barely keeping something in check.
And suddenly, I come to the realisation that I’m not in control of this situation.
He is.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he says, voice lower than I’ve ever heard it.
I blink. “Like what ?”
His hands come up, effectively caging me in as his palms rest against the doorframe on either side of my head.
"Like you’re waiting for me to do something about it.”
I swallow. Hard .
Okay, so maybe my entire body is on fire.
Maybe this is dangerous.
Maybe I should tell him to back off, walk out, never look back.
But I don’t.
His breath brushes my cheek as his lips tilt into something dangerously close to a smirk .
"That’s not -" My voice comes out weaker than I’d like, and I clear my throat, straightening my spine against the door. "That’s not how I’m looking at you."
"No?"
" No ," I say, attempting to sound firm. "I’m looking at you like you’re invading my personal space. Again ."
He hums, unconvinced. "You’d push me away if you really wanted to."
"Maybe I’m just considering my options."
"Take your time, mon ange ," he muses, tilting his head slightly. "I can wait.”
His eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up. Slow. Calculated.
The heat between us is thick, charged.
“You’re one to talk about being able to wait, given that you just abducted me.”
His lips twitch, but I’m not so sure that there’s any real humour in it.
“In my defence, you called me a stalker first.”
“Because you are one,” I grit out.
But my voice isn’t nearly as steady as I want it to be.
“Are you sure about that?”
“ Yes .”
He moves, closing the last sliver of space between us and pressing himself fully against me, his body a wall of heat and strength as he pins me against the door.
“Then what are you going to do about it? ”
Every inch of my body is thrumming with awareness. His presence is everywhere , his scent - clean, expensive, intoxicating - seeping into my lungs, his closeness making my skin burn.
I hate it.
I hate it so much.
Frederic exhales, his lips parting slightly as his warm breath fans across my skin. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, but there’s something else there now - something taut and restrained, like he’s holding himself back with the last shred of control he has left.
His gaze flickers over my face, dark and searching, and as I look right back up at him, it’s like something inside him snaps.
His head dips, brushing his nose against mine.
A taunt. A test.
One of his hands drops away from the surface of the door and comes to rest on my hip. His fingers tighten at my waist, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles over the thin fabric of my dress.
It’s barely anything - a whisper of touch, really - but my body is traitorous. My breath catches, my skin prickling with awareness.
He’s so close. Too close.
But I don’t move. I don’t pull away.
And he notices.
“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs, voice low, rough and thick.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
His eyes drop to my lips .
Lingering. Daring .
My heart hammers against my ribs, so loud I swear he must be able to hear it. The room feels smaller, the air thicker, now - charged with something dangerous and electric.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to close the distance, like he’s waiting for the moment I’ll stop him.
And I should.
I should say something, do something. I should raise my hands to his chest and shove him away, should put an end to whatever this is before it spirals any further out of control.
But I don’t.
I just stand there, pinned between his body and the door, my pulse roaring in my ears, my breath uneven, my lips parting.
Waiting .
“I’ll make this easy for you, mon ange ,” he says softly. “You have two choices.”
Oh, good. We’ve already established how much I love games.
“Choice one: You turn around, walk out of this room, and I won’t speak to you again.”
I swallow hard, barely breathing as his fingers ghost over my waist, like he’s already preparing himself for the possibility of letting go.
“I’ll stay away,” he continues. “I’ll leave you alone. And you have my word: you’ll never have to deal with me ever again.”
A pause.
Quite possibly the longest pause of my life.
“ Or ?” I whisper, barely able to find my voice.
His lips twitch - just slightly, just enough to make my stomach tighten - but there’s nothing playful about the way he looks at me now.
He leans in, his movements slow and deliberate. His nose skims the edge of my jaw, his breath warm against my skin.
“Or… you stay.”
My pulse roars , pounding so hard I can feel it everywhere.
Frederic brings a hand up, the backs of his fingers barely grazing my jaw before trailing lower, following the delicate line of my neck, down, down - until they reach the thin strap of my dress.
His fingers toy with it, his touch featherlight, his knuckles brushing against my bare shoulder as he exhales slowly, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“But if you stay,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, low and lethal, “I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
The silence between us is charged, borderline suffering and thick enough to drown in. My breathing is shallow, my skin is on fire, and my entire body is screaming at me to make a decision.
But there’s no decision to be made, because I already know the answer.
I should leave.
I should walk away.
I should tell him to go to hell and never look back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I do something far, far worse.
I rise onto my toes and I tilt my chin up, my lips a breath from his.
And as the tip of my nose brushes against his, I whisper, “then don’t be.”