Page 13 of Knot So Lucky
She pops a pill into her mouth with practiced efficiency, then raises her water bottle to her lips.
Nothing comes out.
She stares at the empty bottle like it personally betrayed her, and something hot and violent twists in my chest because I know it didn't betray her.That asshole kicked it.Probably made it leak because she hadn't fully tightened the lid after her last drink.
One more thing to add to the list of reasons Dante Moretti needs his face rearranged.
I'm stomping toward her before I consciously decide to move, boots loud against the concrete. I unscrew my water bottle as I walk, bringing it to my lips and taking a long pull without swallowing. The cold liquid fills my mouth, sharp and clean.
The moment I'm within reach, my hand is at the front of her throat.
Not squeezing, not threatening—just there, fingers splayed across the column of her neck where I can feel her pulse jumping under my palm. I pull her back against my chest, fitting her body against mine in a way that makes my hindbrain purr with satisfaction.
She doesn't panic.
Doesn't tense or fight or make any of the defensive moves she would against an unwanted touch.
Because she caught my scent before I reached her.
Knew I'd be here in a heartbeat the moment she needed something.
Her head tilts back slightly, those stormy emerald green eyes meeting mine with a knowing look that pisses me off almost as much as it turns me on.
So I smash my mouth against hers.
Force her lips open with the pressure of the kiss, not giving her time to protest or pull away. The water in my mouth flows into hers in a rush that's more aggressive than practical, and she makes a choked sound that's half surprise, half annoyance.
She almost chokes on it, water dribbling from the corner of her mouth, but I don't give a damn.
I'm suddenly, irrationally angry at this whole fucking situation.
Not at her—never at her, even when she drives me insane with her stubborn refusal to accept help or admit weakness. I'm angry at a world that forces her to hide. Angry at the suppressants she has to take and the binding she wears, and the voice she has to fake. Angry at every entitled piece of shit Alpha who looks at "Rory Lane" and sees a target instead of the brilliant, talented, fuckingextraordinarywoman underneath.
Breaking the kiss, I pull back just enough to see her face.
She gives me that bored stare she's perfected over years of dealing with my shit, lips slightly parted and still wet from the water transfer. Those lips that are fuller than they should be on someone pretending to be male, that she usually keeps pressed in a thin line or curled in a smirk to disguise their shape.
It only makes me tighten my grip around her neck—not enough to hurt, never to hurt, but enough that she can feel the possession in the gesture.
"Do you have a choking fetish now?" she asks, voice pitched carefully low but with that slight rasp that happens when she's been talking all day.
I roll my eyes, even as my body responds to the challenge in her tone.
"Says the woman who can't stay hydrated without supervision."
"I was hydrated until someone kicked my bottle."
"And you were too stubborn to go back inside for another one."
"I had one." She gestures vaguely at the empty bottle still in her hand. "It's not my fault it leaked."
I finally release her throat, watching as she brings her fingers up to touch where my hand was. Her pulse is still elevated—I can see it beating frantically in the hollow of her throat.
She catches my smirk and straightens, crossing her arms in that defensive posture she uses when she's trying to establish boundaries.
"We're in public. There are cameras."
I snort.
