Page 38 of Peripheral Vision

I bite my lip, my heart racing despite my warring emotions, feeling both exposed and entranced by the way his words sink into me like a quiet, insistent pressure. “You think you know me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but it’s a lie I myself can’t believe anymore. “You’re just a shadow of the past.”

He chuckles softly, the sound like velvet over steel as it runs down my spine. “Is that so? Then why is it every time I come near you, you still can’t pull away?” He lifts his head just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes darkening. “If you were still the same, would you be biting that lip of yours and rubbing your legs together to hide the desire that I know is building there?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I snap and try to push him away, but he grabs my wrists, holding them together before leaning over me.

“Nobody likes a liar, Dylan.”

I glower up at him. “I’m not lying.” I am lying through my teeth.

He lets go of my wrists, securing them more firmly in one of his hands while he walks his hand up my thigh. “No? Shall we test that? And what will your punishment be when we find out you are lying?” I grind my teeth, willing the arousal away, but it’s no use as that hand creeps under the cotton of my shorts, his fingers pulling my underwear away from my pussy before he rubs one back and forth through my center. The sound is almost embarrassing. A crooked half smile takes over his face as he withdraws his hand and brings his finger up to his mouth. He holds my gaze as he sucks it dry. “I’ll let you pick this one time. But in the future, the choice will be mine. If you refuse to pick, it doesn’t mean you’re getting out of it—I’ll still pick for you, but with less patience. Don’t keep me waiting.”

He turns and walks out of the room, leaving me flustered and infuriated.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

FLETCHER

Did the little minx do as she was told? No. Did I expect her to? Also no. That’s what’s going to keep this exciting for the both of us. She loves to fight me, and I love it when she fights because I know she will give in eventually. The way she looks at me, a mix between surrender and disbelief, is a sight that I would replay until the end of time. It’s exactly what I had been waiting for and more—that surrender. It wasn’t guilt that twisted in my chest when I thought about it. Guilt has no place here when I knew exactly what I had been doing by watching her, what I had been drawing her in with. She’d fought for so long, clawed at the boundaries I set, but eventually, even the strongest dam would break against the force of a rising tide. That's what people like Dylan don’t understand: resistance isn't the same as strength. Strong she might be, she’s always been one to charge forward into direct confrontation… but resistance? Resistance is about being patient, about knowing that not everything needs to be fought, about continuing down the path even when its obstacles aren’t clear.

But most importantly, resistance is also about knowing when to let go—something that Dylan isn’t good at. Making it the perfectprelude to submission. So when she hopped off the counter and walked straight from the kitchen and into her bedroom, slamming the door with more force than she needed to, I didn’t follow her. She thinks that she has me understood to a T, thinks that I will react when she’s trying to get a reaction. It’s how she keeps her semblance of authority over me, but I’ve learned my lesson in resistance. I didn’t move from my spot that I had reclaimed on the couch, didn’t so much as look her way, even when I knew she was looking in mine as she walked in the opposite direction. If I had to guess though, I’d say she is behind her door fuming, maybe even pacing. Everything she claims tonotwant argues with everything her body betrays.

Her every movement is cataloged, chosen directly in response to something I’ve done. I don’t need to follow her because I already know what will happen next. There are only so many habits that die as we get older, but one that Dylan had perfected when she was younger? When she was pissed off at her dad? Pissed off that I wouldn’t back her up? Just… pissed off? Slamming doors to make a point, her hands undoubtedly curling into fists and then uncurling before running one or both through her loose locks. Eventually, she will either crack the door open as her rage quiets down, or she will go and sit against the wall, repeatedly banging her head against it and picking at her fingernails. She wants to pretend as though this is because of everything that has transpired between us—the way I’ve been following her, the times she didn’t know it was me, and how her body craves every fucked-up part of me. But right now? At this moment? It’s about her thinking I’m not here. She thinks she can block me out with a simple door wedged between us. That is where my power lies. That is where she belongs to me the most.

So when she comes out of her room, albeit several hours later after some likely needed sleep, I’m still sitting on the couch with my feet kicked up on the coffee table watching some shitty TV show to pass the time. When she looks at me, she isn’t the least bit surprised to still see me sitting here, her arms crossed over her chest and a slightly aggrieved expression battling with the fatigue being wornunder her eyes like a shadow. She looks less like a viper in its most deadly form now and more like the shed skin of one. She stands in the doorway, silently studying me, shifting from one foot to the other. “You gonna stand there the rest of the day?” I ask, and her breath hitches. She wasn’t expecting me to be the one to break the silence. She steps forward, taking a few more tentative steps into the space, her hesitation ready to snap at the slightest pull.

She opens her mouth to say something back before closing it again, and I just watch her and wait. I know she’s thinking over what she wants to say as feelings of anger and confusion toil with her desire and lust, not because of what I’ve done to her, but because of what we’ve done together. Because of the line we crossed that can never be uncrossed. She desperately wants to pretend that I’m just me, but the truth of the matter is, that me died the moment I started in the field of work I’m in. Nothing is as simple as she wants it to be. I can see it in the way her eyes assess me, the reconciliation of the man she’s been running from and the one she has come to crave. She wants to pretend that nothing happened between us, but I won’t allow that to happen. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.” My voice comes out raspy. I don’t explain whatitis because I need her to acknowledge what happened. If I allow her to push it into an invisible pocket, then she’ll continue to think she has the upper hand.

She doesn’t answer me, avoiding eye contact, every muscle in her body tense as the air between us thickens. I stand up slowly, her eyes darting to my moving form, but she doesn’t retreat, she doesn’t try to run. She knows that would be fruitless by now. I can see where goosebumps break out over her exposed skin as I close the proximity between us, backing her up into the wall and running my hand down her throat. “Tell me you want this, Dylan. Tell me that you want me.” But she is still quiet against the roaring of her pulse. Her telling me that she was mine while we were in the forest during the peak of our coupling wasn’t enough. It’s easy to give in when you’re already in your most vulnerable state, seeking out a thrill of desire that youknow will only be granted if you do exactly what you’re supposed to. But I want to hear her say it now, in the light of day, with our clothes on and our emotions in check.

“I hate you,” she whispers, but the words are weak, almost a moan, as if she were saying them for herself more than for me. There is a tremor in her voice, and I know she isn’t just fighting me. She’s fighting herself.

“That can be true, just as it can be true that you want to fuck me,” I say softly, the tip of my finger tracing the curve of her jaw. “The two can coexist.” But I’m not going to just stop at her giving me her body, her lust. She is going to give me everything down to her damn soul. I’m going to be sure that she doesn’t know where she ends, and I begin. Everything that she does is going to come back to me. “Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me to step away and I will back off. Tell me to leave and I will leave.” Her lips part but no words come out. She doesn’t tell me to stop because she doesn’t want me to. She doesn’t tell me to step away because she knows I belong right here. She doesn’t tell me to leave because she’s afraid of what it would mean. She may not know the new me, but she knows me all the same. We aren’t strangers, just two fucked up souls rediscovering each other.

Her eyes meet mine and, in that moment, everything she’s been running from catches up to her. The walls she’s built start to crumble, brick by brick, under the weight of what we both know but she refuses to say. “I should,” she finally whispers, her voice unsteady. “I should tell you to go.”

“But you won’t,” I say, grabbing her face between my hands. Not a challenge, just the truth.

Her breath hitches in that way I love, her resolve wavering, letting herself feel it—feel me. And I know then that she won’t tell me to stop. She can’t because she doesn’t want to. She never did. She locks onto my lips as they make the descent to meet hers and as soon as they connect, she melts into me, grabbing onto my arms as though they’re her lifeline. She moans, the sound sending firethrough my spine as I deepen the kiss. Her hands begin exploring, leaving my arms to rest against my chest as she traces the lines of my muscles, causing an involuntary shiver to rush through me. She smiles slightly against my mouth knowing the sort of reaction she is eliciting from me.

“You’re trouble,” I mumble against her lips as she tries to elicit another response from my body by tracing the waistline of my jeans. I’m about to pick her up and carry her back to her bedroom when her cell phone rings, a shrill sound breaking through the moment of intimacy. I try to keep her in the moment with me but she pulls away from me, looking to her room and back to my face as I dare her to go and answer that. And being the stubborn little shit she is, she does, but not without me following her. She tries to close the door on me as she enters, but I don’t allow her an inch, stopping it with my foot and pushing my way through. She glares at me as I smirk at her, closing the door behindus.Her phone has stopped ringing but I watch as the expression on her face falls as she picks it up, whatever she sees there bothering her.

“What is it?” I ask as I step closer. She clutches her phone to her chest in response, not wanting me to see what it is. But that is definitely not going to happen. I hold my hand out for it, waiting for her to give me what I want, but she refuses. Her defiance only fuels my determination. My smirk widens as I take another step closer, closing the already minimal distance between us. Her knees hit the back of her bed, and she involuntarily sits on the mattress. Her grip on the phone tightens. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” I say, my tone low and laced with warning. “You know I always get what I want.”

Her jaw tightens, her fiery gaze locked with mine. “Not this time,” she snaps.

I chuckle softly, amused by her bravado. “You forget, little viper,” I murmur, leaning in just enough to watch her squirm, “I know all your tricks. Whatever it is you’re hiding won’t stay hidden for long. Not when it provokes such a response from you.” Before she canrespond, my hand darts forward, quick and sure. She twists her body, trying to shield the phone, but I’m faster. My fingers close around her wrist, and with a gentle yet firm pull, the phone is mine. She gasps, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and something else she won’t admit. “Let’s see what’s so important,” I say, turning the screen toward me. Her silence is telling. My eyes scan the screen, and as the message registers, my smirk vanishes. A flicker of something sharp and dangerous replaces it. “Well,” I say, my voice dangerously calm, “this just got interesting.”

Her breathing falters as she watches my expression darken, her eyes darting nervously between my face and the phone still in my hand. I read the message again, slower this time, letting the weight of the words settle.

I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t like the way our last conversation ended. We need to talk. Please… just give me another chance.

The name beneath it makes my jaw tighten.Callum.A ghost she was supposed to have buried. “You told me you would end things with him. I thought I made myself perfectly clear as to what would happen if you didn’t heed my warning. And yet…” I lift the phone, tilting it so the screen faces her. “Here he is, spilling his heart out like nothing’s changed.”

“Ididend things with him,” she replies quickly, desperation threading through her words. “I haven’t spoken to him. I didn’t respond. I?—”

“You didn’t block him. You didn’t stop him from thinking he still has a chance. And now he’s messaging you like nothing’s changed.” I interrupt, my gaze snapping back to hers.

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