Page 43 of Until You Break
He didn’t move. “You draw your prison and call it leaves.”
“You call a house a trap and call it love.”
His mouth tipped. “Language is mine. You can borrow it when you behave.”
“Go to hell.” My breath came sharp.
“After dinner.”
He held the sketch up to the light, considering the blur I hadn’t meant to make. “Is this me?”
“It’s a mistake.”
“Mm. Most of mine are beautiful.”
I reached for the paper. He let me almost touch it, just long enough to catch my wrist when I did.
“Careful,piccolino.” His voice slid under my shirt, quiet, invasive.
Heat flushed my throat. His thumb pressed once, deliberate, as if mapping where he’d cut me open if I tried to pull away.
“The more you make yourself at home, the harder it is for me to imagine you anywhere else.”
“Imagine harder.” His breath grazed my cheek, warm enough to make my skin prickle, the closeness crowding out air. A shiver ran down my spine, traitor heat chasing it, too close to fear, too close to want.
He laughed under his breath, sharp and low. “Come closer.”
“No.”
He didn’t pull. He made stillness feel like rebellion.
“Closer.” Softer. Dangerous.
I took the single step because defiance needs air. He stole it.
His fingers slid from my wrist to the edge of my palm, a careless possession. He guided it higher, slow, until my knuckles grazed the line of his belt. The light summer fabric rasped my skin, warmth throbbed under my palm, my pulse stuttering wild.
“Feel what you do to rooms?” His eyes locked on mine, wicked. “They watch you. So do I.”
“I’m not a room.” My voice shook.
“You are. With all the windows open.”
My mouth dried. “Let go.”
“Say you don’t like it, and I will.”
“That trick again.”
“Honesty again.” His thumb swept once over the inside of my wrist, steady, possessive. “You get so sincere for me.”
I yanked back. He didn’t fight, just existed, immovable. My skin burned anyway.
“Stop cataloguing me.”
“I catalog everything I keep.”
“I’m not yours.”
