Page 35 of The Scars of War
“You don’t get to define what safe means for me.”
“Someone has to.”
“Then maybe it shouldn’t be you.”
The silence between us goes sharp. And in it, something shifts. His eyes drop to my mouth. To the towel clutched in my fists. To the bruise just beginning to bloom at my collarbone, from the last time his teeth touched my skin. He takes a step closer, and I stand my ground. Another step. My breath catches. “You’re spiraling,” he murmurs.
“I’m evolving.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“I fucking hope so.”
His hand moves so fast as he fists the towel at my waist and yanks it off in one clean pull. I’m bare in front of him. I let him look. Let him see me. All of me. I’m not ashamed or afraid. And sure as shit not his. “Tell me what he showed you,” Riven says, voice low, dark, churning with something that sounds too much like jealousy.
“No.”
“Lux.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to protect him.”
I smile…slowly. Bitter. Wild. “Maybe I’m not protecting him. Maybe I’m protecting me.” With that, I slap him. Open palm and full force.
The sound cracks the air. He doesn’t move at first. Just drags in one breath, sharp and hot through his nose, like he’s trying not to lose control. And then he does.
His hands are on me in a blink, rough at my waist, yanking me forward before slamming me into the vanity so hard the perfume bottles rattle and my knees jolt against the wood. My cheek hits the mirror with a brutal kiss.
Then his hand fists in my hair and yanks my head back just enough to see my reflection, the wild mess of me, pupils blown wide, lipstick smeared where my mouth dragged against the glass. A slash of red like blood. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t ask.
He crushes himself against me, his chest branding heat into my spine, his breath growling by my ear. One hand still tangled in my hair. The other sliding low, low, lower. Possessive. Desperate. Like he’s trying to carve himself into my skin. This isn’t soft. It’s hunger. Violence.
I use all my strength to turn my body so that we are chest to chest. And I fucking kiss him. Teeth. Tongue. Fury. Clawing at his shirt. He tears at my skin like he’s trying to find where I end and where Elias began to slip in.
I break the kiss first. Panting. Eyes wild. I say the one thing I know will ruin him. “He made me come without even touching me.” Riven freezes. Stone cold.
I see it, the shift. The way his mouth goes slack with rage. The way his pupils blow wide with possession. Then he steps back with hands shaking. “Get dressed,” he says. Quiet. Dangerous. “Now.” I arch a brow.
“Or what?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not scared of pain.”
He swallows that, barely, and turns and walks out. Not because he’s done. Because if he stays, he’ll break something…me. Himself. The world.
He doesn’t speak when I step into the room and I still haven’t gotten dressed. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, shirt half-unbuttoned from when I tried to rip it off him earlier. His fists areclenched. His knuckles bone-white. He doesn’t look at me. Not until I pass him.
Then, he grabs my wrist. Yanks me into his lap and kisses me like he’s starving and I’m the last drop of water in a dying world. His mouth is savage. Tongue ruthless. Hands greedy and cruel as they claim every inch of bare skin. One hand on my throat, the other between my thighs, sliding through the slick heat like he’s confirming something he already knows. “Already wet,” he growls against my lips. “Was that for him?”
“No,” I hiss. “It was for me.” He bites my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Good,” he whispers. “Then taste it.” And I fucking do.
He plunges two fingers into me, slowly and deliberately. When he pulls them back, they’re coated in my slick. He doesn’t even have to tell me. He just brings them to my mouth.
I open for him. Suck his fingers in deep. One at a time. Tongue curling, lips sealing tight. I moan around them like they’re his cock, dragging my mouth down slowly, tasting every filthy drop of myself while he watches.
