Page 48 of Fat Arranged Mate
"It's not the same," I insist, though the conviction wavers. "The hunters who killed Ethan... they chose their violence. They knew exactly what they were doing. They deserve whatever comes to them."
"And what does that give you?" she asks softly. "If you kill every hunter involved, what does that restore?"
"Nothing." The admission burns my throat. "It restores nothing. But I'll never stop wanting them dead for what they took from me. Never."
Her hand rises to my face, fingertips ghosting along my jaw with unexpected tenderness.
"I know," she whispers. "That's what terrifies me about you."
"That I want justice?"
"That you mistake vengeance for justice." Her eyes reflect the candlelight, gold and shadow dancing in their depths. "That you think more death will somehow balance the scales."
"And you think forgiveness will?" I challenge, caught between anger and something dangerously close to need.
"I think survival is its own form of rebellion," she says. "I think living well despite what they tried to take from us—that's the only victory that matters."
Her face is too close, her scent too intoxicating, her words too dangerous in how they threaten the foundations of everything I've built my life around. I should pull away. Should reinstate the distance between us.
Instead, I kiss her.
The contact is sudden, almost violent in its intensity. Not gentle, not questioning—a collision rather than a meeting. Her surprise lasts only a heartbeat before she responds with equal force, her hands gripping my shoulders, nails digging through fabric to skin beneath.
This isn't surrender. It's challenge, opposition given physical form. Her mouth moves against mine with the same stubborn conviction that colors her every argument, refusing to yield even as she draws me closer.
I thread my fingers through her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She makes a sound—frustration or pleasure, impossible to distinguish—and presses closer, eliminating what little space remained between us.
We clash like the storm outside, each touch both question and answer, neither willing to concede ground even in this most primal conversation.
When we finally break apart, breathing hard, the candlelight reveals her lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with challenge and desire in equal measure. A strand of hairclings to her damp lower lip. I reach to brush it away, the simple gesture somehow more intimate than what preceded it.
"This changes nothing," she says, voice husky and uncertain despite the conviction of her words.
"You’re so naive," I counter, tracing the curve of her jaw with my thumb. "I can’t stand it.”
Her eyes hold mine, searching for something I'm not sure I can provide. Then she pulls me back to her, mouth finding mine with renewed purpose, her body arching against me in silent demand.
We roll until I’m on top of her, a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing. Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt with frantic determination, pausing only when I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head against the pillows. The moonlight paints her skin in silver, transforming her into something ethereal—something I fear might vanish if I loosen my grip.
"Is this how you win all your arguments?" I ask, voice rough as I lower my mouth to the hollow of her throat.
She arches beneath me, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "So you admit I’m winning.”
Her pulse hammers against my tongue, wild and insistent. I release her wrists to slide my hands beneath her shirt, tracing the contours of her ribs, the soft curve of her breast. She shudders, eyes fluttering closed as my thumb circles her nipple.
"You talk too much," I growl against her throat, tightening my grip on her hip hard enough to leave marks. Something primal takes over, driving away the last vestiges of restraint.
I tear at her remaining clothes, fabric giving way beneath desperate hands. She responds in kind, nails raking down my back, drawing blood that I barely feel through the haze of need. When she tries to gain leverage, I force her back down, pinning her with my weight, my strength.
"Is this what you want?" I demand, voice barely recognizable as my own. My hand finds her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her eyes widen, pupils blown with arousal rather than fear.
"Yes," she groans. “Fuck me already, Zaleska.”
It’s the angriest, the most fiery I’ve ever seen her. It’s also the hottest thing I’ve seen in my life.
I don't waste another second. Taking her words as permission, I grip her hips, pin her hard against the mattress, one hand pressing on her core to keep her down, fingers teasing the top of her sex. She gasps, not in protest but anticipation, as I tear away the last barrier of clothing between us.
"Is this what you imagined when you argued with me?" I growl into her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "That I'd fuck the defiance right out of you?"
