In other words, death.
“What you underwent,” I say, wishing I could translate numeric equations into words, “was extreme, for lack of a better explanation. Any further—”
“I understand,” she cuts me off. She stares past me into the mirror, a faraway look slipping over her face. When she directs her attention my way, I glimpse an echo of her former self. “All I want is my life back, you insane shit. I want myself back. If you can’t give me that, then we’re done, Alex. It’s over.”
I see her muscles tense as she closes the distance. I see her right shoulder drop. I make a split-second decision not to block her attack and let Blakely punch my face.
The impact jars me for a suspended moment, delaying my reaction time. My jaw takes the brunt of the strike, whatever solid object she’s holding distributing the impact without give.
She goes to deliver another punch, like she’s compulsively practiced on that punching bag, and I capture her arm and shoulder in an arm-lock to restrain her movements. We grapple like this, her wriggling to loosen my hold, me refusing to take her down, until she forces me to sweep her leg. I catch her around her lower back before she hits the floor.
“Your emotions are hindering your decision making,” I say.
“No fucking shit.” She jabs my ribs. On reflex, I release her.
She lands on her ass, but recovers quickly, rolling onto her hip. She swipes her foot out and takes me down beside her.
A laugh bursts free. “You’ve gotten good with your training.”
She groans as she gets to her knees. “I knew you were watching me, you sick—”
“Watching over you,” I tell her, turning onto my side and raising my hands in time to block her fist. Her jab stings the hell out of my palm, and I circle her wrist, squeezing hard to make her open her hand.
A roll of nickels clatters to the tiled floor. “You’re going to break your fingers. And I like your fingers.”
She tries to jerk out of my hold, but I won’t release her. “It was supposed to break your face.”
I catch her other hand as it comes toward my stomach. I meet her sea-green eyes brewing with a storm. “And after you’re done beating the hell out of me, what are you going to do? Where are you going to go? You need me, Blakely.”
She narrows her gaze, rage brimming around the edges. “If you can’t fix me, then there’s absolutely nothing I need from you. Let me go.”
“Never,” I say. “I’m never letting you go again.”
I might have been able to leave her once before. I could’ve even forced myself to stay away. But touching her now, breathing the same air as her, feeling her heart pound against my chest…
This is over for me.
I’d let Grayson eviscerate me with a dull butterknife if it meant keeping Blakely forever.
I give her the chance to make good on her threat and drop her wrists. She holds my gaze a second before she raises her arm and sends her elbow toward my nose. Since I can’t have a broken nose added to my list of ailments to slow me down, I catch her fist and twist her arm downward, pinning her forearm behind her back and forcing her chest against mine.
Before she can strike with her left, I lock my hand around her arm and pin it to her thigh.
I look down into her face, wondering just how far her anger extends, if she’s willing to sacrifice injuring herself to hurt me. One headbutt would free her.
“I don’t mind doing this all night,” I say, unable to suppress a smile. “But we do have urgent matters to discuss. Just let me know when you’ve had enough.”
“Fuck you.”
My dick jumps at the thought. I groan, so damn tempted.
A shot of anger ignites her eyes, and she cranes her head back.
Instead of letting her injure the both of us with a headbutt, I release her arms and grab the backs of her thighs. I pull her forward and drop her back to the floor. Essentially, I’ve put her in the guard position which, had she trained more with grappling rather than punching, she’d realize she’s in the most powerful position.
I push between her thighs. As she straddles me, I bear down on top of her, restraining her wrists above her head.
I stare down and admire how her heavy breaths strain her breasts against her top. After a few useless attempts to free herself, her fight wanes. She relaxes her muscles and rests her head on the floor.
“Why are you just staring at me, you freak.”
“I’m trying to decide what I want to do more.” I thrust hard against her, earning a soft moan from her lips. “Whether I want to tear your pants off and taste you, or shove my fingers deep inside—”
Her thighs crush my midsection in an attempt to remove me. When that fails, she rests again. “How was it so easy to kill a man by accident, yet I can’t murder the one I want intentionally.”
“Because, beneath all those raging emotions, you don’t actually want to kill me. I’ll let you in on a little secret about the emotionally capable.” I secure her wrists in one hand so I can maneuver lower down her body. Using my teeth to drag the hem of her top up, I expose the soft skin and delicate curve of her abdomen that I’ve sketched from memory.
“Hatred and love, they’re nearly indiscernible,” I say. “Passion rules us, and anger is felt at its height when either of those emotions take hold.”
“You’re beyond deranged if you believe we’re in love.”
I drop a kiss to her belly, parting my mouth to trail my tongue over her flesh, eliciting tiny ripples of gooseflesh and a breathy sigh from her lips. It’s crazy inducing. I’m battling the frenzied urge to strip her naked and sink so deep inside her, she won’t be able to deny our connection.
“We’re not in love,” I agree with her. “We’re in need, in pain. Love is merely dopamine and norepinephrine, chemicals produced to dull the pain. Not for long, though. Because that pain? Pain is real. Pain to complete a connection and satisfy the need. It’s sick and villainous and twists us, but we have to answer that demand.”
Her hips flinch in response. She barely moves, but the slightest press of her pussy against my cock nearly decimates me.
“Christ, you’re making me come undone, Blakely.” I lie my forehead to her chest, intoxicated, drunk on her lure. I don’t even care if she squeezes the life out of me. I’d welcome her pain and pleasure equally.
Everything about her is the same, but different. She’s softer. Fragile and fearful. Strong, and even just as cunning, but she’s questioning. She never hesitated before. She’d never allow me to hold her against the floor as she contemplated her move.
I’d be the one on the floor.
The woman who Tasered me and shot me up with club drugs is still present, but now there’s a vulnerable undercurrent that begs to be touched.
And, oh, I want to touch that part of her greedily.
But the ticking in my head grows louder, sounding over the thump of music, reminding me she’s in trouble.
That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m giving up any progress and discovery and breaking my rules to be here with her right now and convince her she needs me.
With painful regret, I let go of her leg and separate from her. But before I release her completely, I palm the side of her face and tilt her head back. Her gaze is curious as she stares up at me, as if she’s trying to piece together what I’m holding back.