Chapter Thirty-Six #2
I watched him as he dressed, his movements economical and precise.
The same power that had once terrified me now held a different kind of allure.
He was a paradox—a monster forged in violence, yet capable of a tenderness that defied his brutal nature.
He had claimed me, broken me, and in doing so, had somehow become the anchor I desperately needed.
He turned to me, his obsidian eyes meeting mine, and for the first time, I saw not just a conqueror, but a man.
A man who had been forged in fire, just as I had.
He offered a small, rare smile, a hint of something tender beneath the layers of his hardened exterior.
“Get dressed, Kitten,” he commanded with a throaty growl that went straight to my core.
Sitting up on his bed, I gathered the surrounding sheets around myself to give me some sense of modesty and said, “That’s going to be hard.”
“Why?” he grumbled.
“I’m not sure if you remember your temper tantrum the other night, but you cut the only pair of jeans I owned and ripped my shirt to pieces.”
A slow smirk appeared on his lips.
I narrowed my eyes. “It’s not funny, Firestride. I have nothing to wear.”
Striding toward me, he leaned close, the heat of his body radiating against mine, causing me to fall back against the pillows, a blush I couldn’t control creeping up my neck.
“What’s not funny is going to be your ass if you don’t get dressed,” he said, his gaze intense, pinning me. “I have shit you can wear.”
My mind screamed at me to refuse. To assert myself.
To tell him I wouldn’t be commanded, that I wasn’t his property to dress and undress at his whim.
But the raw, possessive hunger in his eyes—the very thing that should have sent me running—held me captive.
It mirrored a longing I hadn’t dared to acknowledge, a dangerous siren song that whispered of being wanted, truly seen, even if by someone as undeniably forceful as him.
“They are too big for me,” I managed, my voice a wavering whisper, betraying my inner turmoil. It was a weak protest, a hollow shell of the defiance I should have felt. I hated this weakness, this desperate need for his approval clashing violently with my ingrained self-reliance.
He shrugged, a movement that seemed both dismissive and overly casual, as if my protests were mere background noise.
Then, he leaned in and kissed me, a searing brand that ignited a firestorm within me.
It was a kiss that promised possession, that blurred the lines between desire and dominance, and I kissed him back, a surrender I instantly regretted and craved in equal measure.
He pulled away, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and strode toward the door.
“Five minutes, then I’m leaving without you. ”
At that, I sat up, the sheet dropping away, exposing me not just to his gaze, but to my own agonizing vulnerability.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my question a plea, a desperate attempt to cling to whatever fragile connection we had.
It was a bad choice, I knew, to show him this desperate need, but the alternative was far worse.
“Five minutes!” he said, the finality in his voice echoing the slamming of the door behind him.
Scrambling out of bed, I rushed over to his dresser and hurriedly sifted through the minimal clothing he had. “Clothes my ass,” I muttered, snagging a white T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. “A homeless man has more clothing.”
Quickly donning them, I ran into the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush, the bristles coarse against my teeth as I scrubbed with desperate ferocity.
Each stroke felt like an attempt to erase not just the lingering taste of the night, but something deeper, something I couldn’t quite name.
I gathered my hair, twisting it on top of my head into a topknot, a hasty attempt at regaining some semblance of control.
Once back in the bedroom, I quickly found my boots and then groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated frustration.
Walking back over to his dresser, I scavenged every drawer for a pair of clean socks, my fingers brushing against unfamiliar fabrics, a phantom scent of him clinging to everything.
Only to come up empty. Frowning, I looked around his room, and groaned again, a heavier sound this time, as I walked over to his nightstand.
I ripped open the top drawer, my stomach clenching at the sight of condoms, KY-Jelly, and other unmentionable items that burned themselves into my retinas, a stark reminder of the vulnerability I’d surrendered.
Is this how he sees me? The thought was a cold shard of ice.
Slamming the drawer shut, I opened the bottom drawer, hoping for a reprieve, but found it full of Playboy, Hustler, half-empty bottles of booze, and a small vial of cocaine.
The temptation, even as it repulsed me, flickered.
Just a small taste? To forget. I recoiled at the thought, disgusted with myself.
Standing, I huffed, surveying the room as if it held the answers, when he stormed back in.
“Let’s go.”
“I can’t find any socks,” I managed, my voice tight with a mixture of anger and something akin to shame for even having to ask.
“Bathroom trash can.”
Blinking, I just stared at him, the absurdity of it all hitting me.
The trash? My mind reeled. This was so far beneath any level of decency I expected.
But the thought of leaving without something on my feet, of stepping out into the world vulnerable, made my skin crawl.
I fought the urge to recoil; the disgust warring with the urgent need to just leave.
This was a choice I didn’t want to make, a compromise of my own standards.
“You know what? I don’t even want to know.”
Rolling my eyes, a practiced gesture to mask the churning inside me, I hurried over to the bathroom.
My hand shook as I dug through the trash can and fished out a pair of mismatched but relatively clean socks, a wave of shame washing over me.
I wrinkled my nose as I slipped them on, silently promising myself to organize his room as soon as possible, a futile gesture I knew.
“This is barbaric,” I muttered, my words escaping before I could censor them.
I yanked my boots on, the rough leather a small comfort, and looked up to find him impatiently tapping his foot, a silent countdown to my continued entanglement.