Page 75 of Fierce Pursuit

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a glare sharp enough to slice bone. “When I finally caught up to you again, what did you do?”

He turned on me so fast I flinched. “You knocked me unconscious.” A step closer. “And hog-tied me like a fucking asshole.”

I swallowed hard, pulse hammering.

His breath came out in harsh bursts, his nostrils flaring. “And I justified it. I thought, it’s fine. She’s scared. I understand that. So I gave you grace. I tracked you down onto that train, paid for a perfectly good first-class room—one with a bed, with food, so we could actually rest—and what did you do?”

He cut himself off, chest heaving. “You jumped off the goddamn train.”

I opened my mouth again, but his voice cracked over mine.

“Who the fuck jumps off a goddamn train?” His jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind.

“I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m soaked through with mud and dirt and God only knows what else. And you“—he jabbeda finger toward me—"are going to take off your goddamn clothes and get in that fucking shower.”

I sucked in a sharp breath.

“Because I want to get clean. And warm. And there is not a single chance in hell that I am leaving you alone.” His voice dipped lower, quieter, but no less dangerous. “So you can escape again.”

His face was dark red, veins bulging in his neck. His fingers flexed, clenched, then flexed again, like he wanted to grab something—me—but didn’t trust himself to touch me.

The suite was too quiet in the wake of his fury.

The only sound was our breathing. His, heavy and ragged. Mine, shallow and uneven.

He wasn’t just angry.

He was feral.

And I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

His whole body was wound tight, every muscle coiled as if he were barely holding himself together.

I had never seen someone so livid.

I should’ve been afraid. I should have been backing away, trying to put as much space between us as possible.

Instead, an entirely different instinct took hold, one I hated.

I wanted to soothe him. To drag my fingers through his hair, press my lips to the angry line of his jaw, smooth away the tension in his shoulders. To fix it.

Nope. Not happening.

I shoved that thought into a dark hole and slammed the lid shut. My body didn’t get a say in what happenednow, only my brain. She was in full control…at least, so I hoped.

“I’m not getting naked,” I challenged, though the discomfort was becoming unbearable. The mud had worked its way everywhere. Down my collar, into my bra, between my thighs where it chafed with every step. My skin itched fiercely under the drying clay.

His gaze dropped, tracking the movement before flicking back to my face. His jaw ticked.

If I wasn’t careful, he was going to spank me again.

I was a ridiculous sight, standing there like a defiant brat, but I didn’t care. I was sticking to my guns on this one. I shifted my weight, feeling another chunk of mud break off and fall to the floor.

My jeans had essentially become cardboard, molded to my legs and stiff as plaster. The sensation was maddening. My skin simultaneously wet in some places and painfully dry in others.

But this was about control.

If I gave in, if I did what he wanted, it would just prove what I already knew—that he expected complete obedience. That my body, my choices, my actions were all subject to his approval.

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