Page 11 of Bloody Knuckles

The word barely leaves my mouth before his lips crash down on mine. The kiss holds nothing of gentleness or romance—it's possession, dominance, punishment. His mouth demands submission, tongue invading when I gasp in shock.

I should bite him. Fight him. Instead, my body betrays me. Liquid fire pours through my veins, pooling low in my belly and between my thighs. The kiss transforms, rage melting into something more primal.

I kiss him back with ferocity, channeling days of fear and hatred into the connection. His groan vibrates against my lips as his hand releases my wrists to grip my waist instead. My freed hands find his shoulders, nails digging through expensive fabric.

Our mouths battle for control, neither yielding. He tastes of whiskey and danger, intoxicating in the worst way. His tongue strokes against mine, demanding responses I can't fight. His hand slides lower, gripping my ass, pulling me tighter against his erection.

The hard length of him pressed against me sends a forbidden thrill racing through my core. His teeth capture my bottom lip, biting just hard enough to blur pleasure with pain. My nipples tighten against my sweater, my treacherous body responding to my captor's touch.

His mouth moves to my neck, hot and demanding. "You taste like rebellion," he murmurs against my skin, before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

The claiming gesture shatters my momentary madness. I tear away, shoving against his chest.

"No." My voice comes ragged, betraying my response. "This doesn't change anything."

Cormac's lips curve with lust and triumph. "It changes everything, princess. Now I know how good that defiance tastes. How your body responds with lust when you surrender, even for seconds."

"I didn't surrender."

"No?" His thumb wipes across my swollen bottom lip. "The wetness between your thighs disagrees."

Shame and unwanted desire war within me. I turn away, refusing to acknowledge the truth in his words. The kiss revealed something I've fought to deny—raw attraction to the man who holds me captive. Stockholm syndrome in record time.

"Take me back if you must," I whisper, defeated for now but not broken. "But don't pretend this was anything but a power play."

"Oh, it's all about power." Cormac steps back, creating space between us. "But not the kind you think."

He wraps his fingers around my upper arm, grip firm but not bruising. "Let's go. Unless you'd prefer I carry you through Temple Bar for all of Dublin to see?"

The walk back to the penthouse passes in tense silence. Not the elevator, but stairs through a service entrance—another security measure I hadn't discovered. With each step, my failure weighs heavier. So close to freedom, only to be dragged back by the devil himself.

Inside the apartment, Cormac dismisses the guards with a gesture. The door locks, sealing us in together.

"You'll find security upgraded," he says, removing his coat. "Your little adventure exposed weaknesses in our system. They won't recur."

"Congratulations." I cross my arms. "You've built a better prison."

"A prison you'll learn to appreciate." He approaches, backing me against the wall. "Especially compared to alternatives."

His proximity reignites the unwanted heat from the alley. My body remembers his kiss, craves more despite my mind's protest. The space between us vibrates with tension.

"I hate you," I whisper, the declaration as much for myself as for him.

"Hate me all you want." His palm flattens against the wall beside my head. "But don't lie to yourself about what happened tonight."

"A mistake. Nothing more."

His laughter holds no humor. "No, Aoife. What happened was inevitable. Fire recognizes fire."

He leans closer, lips nearly brushing mine again. I turn away, denying him.

"Rest while you can," he murmurs against my ear instead, his breath sending unwanted shivers down my spine. "Tomorrow, your father will be given my terms. Then we'll see what your freedom is truly worth to the Gallagher empire."

His hand trails down my side, stopping at my hip. "And when I finally take you to my bed—and I will—it won't be because of Stockholm syndrome. It'll be because you can't deny this current between us any longer. You will beg me, on your knees."

He steps back, his composure perfect despite the hardness still visible against his trousers. The evidence of desire he makes no attempt to hide.

"Sweet dreams. Dream of me."

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