Page 23 of Until You Break
He turned his face away.
My hand closed on his throat. Firm. Not choking but enough pressure to remind him whose house held his breath. His pulse fluttered frantic under my palm.
"Look at me."
He stilled, wide-eyed.
"Open."
His lips parted because the body obeys before the mind does. I tilted the glass. Red slid in. He coughed, tried to pull back. My hand held him steady, thumb against his jaw.
I tipped the glass. Red spilled, streaking down his chin. The tannins hit his tongue bitter, the alcohol burned hot. The sting forced another swallow, shame curling deeper.
"Tsk." Again my thumb caught it. This time I licked it off slower, tongue dragging heat over my own skin. His eyes widened, horror and something hotter fighting in their depths.
He flushed scarlet. His throat jumped under my palm as he swallowed the last mouthful.
"Better," I murmured.
I set the glass down. Took the knife. Cut through charred beef, juices bleeding onto white porcelain. Lifted a slice, still steaming.
"Open again."
"No," his voice shook.
"Yes." I pressed meat to his lips. He turned his head, jaw clamped.
My grip on his throat tightened just enough. Claim, not cruelty. His eyes went wide. His lips parted under pressure. I slid the meat in. Watched him choke once before he forced it down.
"Good," I said, soft. "See how much easier honesty is?"
His chest rose too fast, curls sticking to his temple. His lips glossed wine and oil. His eyes burned with fury and something worse, confusion that would not leave him alone.
"You think I'll keep swallowing?" he snapped, raw.
"You already do," I said, amused. "Lie for a lie."
My phone buzzed.
I did not let go of his throat. I answered with my other hand. "Parla."
"Retaliation," Luca said. "They are moving now. Men at the gates, engines in the lane, figures along the hedgerow. They mean to make noise, to draw us out. Guards are taking positions."
I smirked at Emilio, still held, glass within reach. He could not hear the map of movement but his color drained as if the room had been carved out from under him.
"Find who organized it," I said.
"Bene," Luca said. "You sound calm."
"I'm having dinner."
"With your feral prize?" Luca's laugh cut the line. "He on his knees yet?"
"Careful," I said.
I let the laugh hang and ended the call. I slid the phone into my pocket and brushed my knuckles once across Emilio's cheek, then across his lips, feeling the oil transfer to my skin. "Remember who you are to me," I murmured, claim folded into warning. "Remember this."
I released his throat. His breath came ragged. His lips trembled with wine, meat, oil. He made a sound I couldn't place, relief or something sharper.
