11. Nash #2
I pull her inside and shut the door. The lock clicks, and her spine straightens. She backs away, but not far. I crowd her before she can decide what to do with all that defiance, caging her against the heavy mahogany door with my hands braced on either side of her head.
I don’t touch her. Not yet. If I touch her now, I may not stop at proving a point.
“Do you have any idea what I felt when I realized you weren’t in this house?” I ask.
My voice comes out rougher than I want it to.
Good. Let her hear it.
“When I realized Ever had taken you back to that place? I felt like the world was slipping through my fingers. I felt like I was failing the only thing that matters.”
Her throat works.
“You don’t own me, Nash,” she breathes. “I am not one of your things.”
“No.” My gaze drops to her mouth. “You’re not a thing. But you are mine. There’s a difference. And if I have to break every bone in Ever’s body to make sure you stay safe, I’ll do it. If I have to lock you in this room until the Syndicate is ash, I’ll do it. Do you understand me?”
“I understand that you’re a tyrant.”
There should be more bite in it but she’s strangely calm.
Her pupils are blown wide. Her breath comes shallow. Her hands press against my chest, but she doesn’t push with any real conviction.
Her body gives her away. Mine’s been doing the same since she came down those stairs wearing another man’s hoodie and a haunted house in her eyes.
“A tyrant,” I repeat.
My hand leaves the door and finds her jaw. Her skin is warm under my thumb. Too warm. Too alive for all the things I feared tonight. I trace the line of her lower lip and watch her breath hitch.
“Maybe. But I’m the tyrant who’s going to keep you alive, Reva. And I think you know that.”
Her hands flex against my shirt. “Ever—”
“Fuck Ever.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re an asshole, Nash.”
“And?”
That startles half a breath out of her. I lean in.
She could turn her face. Bite. Tell me no. Instead, her fingers fist in my shirt and drag me closer.
The kiss is a collision. Bourbon. Salt. Reva.
Raw, desperate need with anger under it, over it, inside it.
She meets me like a fight, teeth and nails and fury, and I take every piece of it she gives me.
My hand tangles in her damp hair, holding her where I want her. She bites my lip hard enough to sting.
I growl into her mouth.
This is not Shiloh’s softness. This is not Ever’s silence. This is mine.
Correction. Consequence. Claim.
And from the way she arches into me, from the way her nails drag down my back through my shirt, she knows it, too.
I break the kiss just enough to breathe against her mouth, my pulse a war drum in my throat.
“I should punish you,” I rasp, my hand sliding down to grip her hip. “I should make you regret ever stepping foot outside this house.”
Her eyes are dark and bright and wrecked.
“Then do it,” she whispers. “Stop talking about it, Nash. Stop managing me. Just…do it, already.”
That snaps the last thread.
I grab the hem of Shiloh’s hoodie and pull it over her head in one rough motion. It lands somewhere behind me. She is left in nothing but skin and leggings, flushed, hair damp around her face, mouth swollen from mine.
Beautiful.
Furious.
Mine.
I catch her wrist and turn her toward the bed.
She stumbles forward, palms hitting the gray silk before she can steady herself. The mattress dips under her weight. For one breath, she is face down with her knees against the edge of my bed and her heart beating so hard I can see it in the line of her throat.
I set my hand at the small of her back, then tug her leggings and panties down in a single motion, shoving them to her feet and then completely off.
“You do not disappear from this house,” I say.
Her breath catches.
“You don’t walk into graves because pain makes you think you have permission.”
“Nash—”
My palm lands against her ass.
Not hard enough to truly hurt. Hard enough to make the sting bloom on the pale skin of her ass. Hard enough to pull a sound from her that wipes every rational thought from my head.
My fingers flex against her back, testing.
Control. I have it. Barely.
I lean over her, my body covering hers without crushing her. My mouth brushes the shell of her ear.
“You don’t make me wonder whether I’m going to find you breathing.”
Another strike. Sharper. A clean, sensual crack that sends a tremor through her body and straight into mine.
She likes it, but she hates that she likes it. I know because when I dip two fingers between her thighs she’s fucking soaked. She pushes against them, seeking, and I pulse them into her once, twice, teasing, before I withdraw.
“Do you understand me?” I ask.
She turns her face against the bedspread, breathing hard. “You are so fucking bossy.”
My hand comes down again. She bites back a moan. I go still.
God help me.
“Answer me, Reva.”
The order lands between us. Her breath shudders out.
“Yes,” she says, the word rough and broken. “I understand.”
I slide my palm over the sting, turning correction into tenderness. Her body softens under my hand before her pride can stop it. I feel it happen. The surrender.
“Good girl,” I say.
The words are low enough to make her shake.
Then I flip her.
Her back hits the mattress, perfect tits bouncing, and I am over her before she can draw a full breath. I see my own restraint reflected in her eyes, wide and dark. I reach for my belt and pull it free, the leather hissing through the loops before it hits the floor.
“You want the monster, Reva?” I ask, stripping with brutal efficiency. “You’ve got him. But remember this—once I have you, there is no going back. There is no closet to hide in.”
She does not look away. She reaches for me instead.