Chapter 62
Sebastian
I shifted my weight, settling more fully over her, one knee sliding between her legs to pin her in place as I captured both wrists and forced them above her head. She tried to twist free, body arching beneath mine in a way that made heat spike through me despite the anger, but I was stronger, heavier, and I felt the moment her muscles gave up, the moment she realized struggling would only exhaust her. Her chest heaved with rapid breaths, the thin fabric of her dress doing little to hide the way her body responded to mine, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from the pulse hammering visibly in her throat.
"You went to them," I said quietly, keeping my tone measured when what I wanted was to shake her until she understood. "The animals. Not to me. Never to me."
Her eyes met mine with no apology, no regret. Only cold, stubborn pride that made me want to crush it and cherish it in the same breath. "They don't try to own me," she said, and the words landed like a slap.
I leaned closer, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath against my lips, close enough to see the faint silver flecks in her irises, the way her pupils dilated despite her anger. "You smiled at them," I said, voice coming out rougher than intended, my free hand coming up to trace the line of her jaw, feeling her skin heat beneath my touch. "You were gentle. You trusted them. But with me, all I get is ice, distance, constant fucking resistance."
She turned her head away, jaw clenched, throat working as she swallowed hard, and I followed the movement with my thumb, pressing lightly against the rapid flutter of her pulse. "Look at me when I'm talking to you," I murmured, and when she didn't comply, I caught her chin, forcing her to face me, my grip firm but not painful, my thumb brushing across her lower lip.
She did, gaze snapping back with a defiance that should have infuriated me but instead sent a different kind of heat coursing through my veins. "You think I don't see through this act?" I continued, voice dropping to something lower, more intimate. "You're scared of me, little moon. Terrified. But you're also curious. Drawn to me despite yourself, and you hate it." I shifted my hips slightly, pressing closer, and felt her breath catch. "You hate that your body responds, that your pulse races when I touch you, that some part of you wonders what it would be like to stop fighting."
Her breath hitched, barely audible, and I saw something flicker in her eyes—panic, maybe, or recognition—before she shuttered it away. "You're delusional," she said, but her voice came out breathier than before, and I could feel the tremor running through her body where it pressed against mine.
I smiled, slow and predatory, leaning in until my lips brushed the shell of her ear, my breath warm against her skin. "Am I?" I whispered, and I felt her shiver despite herself. "Then why is your heart pounding right now? Why are you trembling?" I shifted again, deliberately, feeling her body respond even as she tried to suppress it. "Why do you look at me like you're not sure whether you want to kill me or kiss me?"
She jerked her head away, breathing ragged now, and for a moment I thought she might bite me again, but instead she went still, body rigid beneath mine, and the tension between us felt thick enough to cut. I released her chin, trailing fingers down the side of her neck, over her collarbone, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her skin flushed under my touch.
"Say it," I demanded, voice hardening even as my touch remained deliberately gentle, almost tender, my hand sliding down to rest over her racing heart. "Say you're mine. Say you belong to me."
Her eyes flashed with renewed fury, lips parting to refuse, and I transferred both her wrists to one hand, my other moving to cup her face, thumb stroking her cheek in a gesture that was both possessive and strangely intimate. "Don't make me ask again, little moon," I said softly, dangerously, and I saw the war playing out in her expression—pride versus pragmatism, defiance versus the undeniable pull between us.
"Stop..." she managed finally, barely more than a whisper, and something in her voice—not quite surrender but not quite refusal either—made me pause.
But I didn't stop. Instead I leaned down and kissed her, and this time it wasn't harsh or punishing but slow, deliberate, coaxing. I felt her tense beneath me, felt her try to turn away, but I held her gently in place, my mouth moving against hers with a patience I didn't know I possessed, tasting her, learning her, until I felt the moment her resistance began to crack, the moment her lips softened just slightly against mine.
I took advantage immediately, deepening the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers as my hand moved from her face to tangle in her silver hair. She made a sound in the back of her throat—protest or surrender, I couldn't tell—and I felt her body arch up into mine involuntarily before she caught herself. When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, her lips swollen and red, eyes wide and dazed, and I could see confusion warring with anger.
"Your kiss is excellent," I said mockingly, echoing my earlier demand, my thumb tracing her lower lip, feeling it tremble beneath my touch.
"Your kiss is terrible," she shot back, but her voice shook, and we both knew the lie for what it was.
"Who have you kissed before to make that comparison?" I asked, tone deceptively light but with a dangerous edge, my hand sliding down to rest against her throat, feeling her swallow hard. "Who else has touched you like this? Who else has made you feel this way?"
She glared at me, jaw set, and then said with deliberate venom, "Only dogs kiss like that."
I should have been furious. Should have punished her for the calculated cruelty. Instead I found myself smiling, slow and dangerous, and I leaned down to press my lips against the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the sensitive spot just below her ear. "I'll take that as you're too scared to admit the truth," I murmured against her skin, feeling her shiver, feeling the way her body responded despite her words.
She opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off by releasing her wrists and sitting back on my heels, giving her just enough space to breathe. She immediately brought her hands down, rubbing at her wrists, and I watched the play of emotions across her face—relief, confusion, wariness.
"Sit up," I ordered, voice calm and authoritative, and after a moment's hesitation she obeyed, movements stiff and cautious.
"I want to talk," she said, and there was a pleading note now. "But not like this. Not with you hovering over me like I'm prey."
I considered her request, then made a decision that surprised even me. "Fine," I said, reaching for her and pulling her onto my lap so she was straddling me, legs on either side of my hips, my hands settling on her waist, thumbs brushing against the bare skin where her dress had ridden up. "We'll talk like this instead. Face to face."