I shove him with both hands.
Hard.
All of it in there. Heat. Fury. That stupid pulse still wrecking my shoulder. The humiliation of arching into his bite like I lost my damn mind.
His body rocks back.
He wasn't expecting that much force.
Good.
And before he steadies—
My palm connects.
SMACK.
The sound is sharp. Clean. Loud in the room.
His face snaps to the side.
And then—
Silence.
I freeze.
Oh fuck.
I just slapped a Tavarian.
Not just any Tavarian.
Him.
My prime suspect in half the crimes that float around his name.
My brain goes from fire to ice in two seconds.
He doesn't move.
His head is still turned.
Jaw tight.
I'm suddenly very aware of how alone we are.
Very aware of how easily he pinned me five seconds ago.
Very aware of how stupid I might have just been.
He rolls his tongue slowly inside his mouth.
Presses it against his cheek from the inside where I hit him.
Testing.
Feeling it.
He doesn't turn his face yet.
Just looks at me from the corner of his eye.
Sideways.
Dark.
Focused.
And fuck.
Why is that so hot.
Why does he look like that.
I should be scared.
I am scared.
But my stomach flips anyway.
This is how girls end up on their knees, I think wildly.
Control yourself.
He slowly turns his head back to face me.
A faint red mark is blooming across his cheek.
He smirks.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"That's my girl."
My brain stutters.
Excuse me?
I stare at him.
He wipes his mouth with his thumb.
Still smirking.
"Is that your kink?" he asks lazily. "Hitting men who can snap you in half?"
My throat goes dry.
"You deserved it."
He tilts his head.
"I know my wife won't stay silent," he says calmly. "She'll fight back."
My pulse jumps.
Wife?
The word hits too hard.
I hate that it hits.
"Don't call me that."
He watches my reaction carefully.
Oh he saw that.
Of course he did.
"You don't scare easy," he continues. "That's why I like you."
"I don't exist for you to like."
He grins.
"You exist. That's enough."
I swallow.
My shoulder still tingles where he bit me.
I lift my chin.
"Bite me again, you fucking bastard," I snap. "I will end your entire generation."
He laughs.
Not soft.
Not controlled.
A real laugh.
It does something stupid to my insides.
He drops back onto the bed.
The mattress bounces under his weight.
Abs flex.
I hate that I notice.
His voice drops lower.
"You won't dare that one."
"I'll try, bitch."
He grins again.
Like this is foreplay and not a threat.
God.
I step off the bed.
Need space.
Need oxygen.
Need to stop staring at the way his chest rises and falls like he didn't just get slapped.
"Mad at me?" he asks, watching me.
I flip him off without turning around.
"Fuck you, daddy," I throw over my shoulder as I head toward the door.
The word tastes dangerous.
I don't look back.
I don't want to see his face.
He doesn't hesitate.
"I plan to."
My heart jumps so hard it's embarrassing.
I don't stop walking.
I don't react.
I don't give him the satisfaction.
But my pulse is racing all the way to the door.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
I lock the bathroom door.
Not gently.
The click sounds too loud in the quiet.
My hands are shaking.
From anger.
From adrenaline.
From whatever the hell that was.
I turn on the light and stare at myself in the mirror.
Hair a mess.
Eyes too bright.
Lips swollen from biting them.
I look unhinged.
I look… flushed.
Shut up.
I turn slightly.
Pull the strap of my top down.
And there it is.
Two distinct fang marks on my shoulder.
Not punctured all the way through.
Not bleeding.
But deep.
Defined.
Two sharp indents, spaced too perfectly to be an accident.
It hurts.
Not a dull ache.
Not soft.
It burns.
And at the same time—
It tingles.
Like a low electric current humming under my skin.
I touch it.
Bad idea.
A sharp pulse shoots down my arm.
I hiss and pull my hand back.
"What the fuck," I mutter at my reflection.
Who the hell has fangs like that?
Normal men do not have teeth shaped like that.
Normal men do not bite like they're testing bone.
My brain starts spiraling.
Is he a vampire?
Dracula?
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because this is ridiculous.
I used to read that stupid novel about Jonathan and Dracula and think wow, tragic, dark, dramatic nonsense.
I did not, in any universe, expect to marry one.
God.
Focus.
I lean closer to the mirror.
The marks are clean.
Measured.
Not wild.
Not out of control.
That's when it clicks.
He wasn't lost in it.
He wasn't overwhelmed.
He wasn't even fully rough.
He was watching me.
Even while biting.
His eyes.
They weren't hazy.
They were sharp.
Calculating.
He was testing.
Testing how I react when cornered.
Testing how far he can push before I break.
Testing if I freeze.
If I fight.
If I beg.
My stomach drops.
That wasn't about pleasure.
That was intentional.
A controlled experiment.
He applied pressure.
Waited.
Observed.
Adjusted.
Like I'm a damn variable.
I replay it.
The grip.
Not painful.
Just firm enough.
The leg trap.
Efficient.
Minimal movement.
The bite.
Deeper when I arch.
He noticed that.
Of course he noticed.
He notices everything.
He wasn't trying to overpower me.
He was measuring me.
And I responded.
Exactly how he needed me to.
I fought.
I slapped him.
I didn't beg.
I didn't say stop properly.
I didn't break.
My reflection stares back at me.
Shoulder marked.
Eyes wide.
Breathing still uneven.
He really did look like a predator.
Not wild.
Not reckless.
Controlled.
Patient.
Waiting.
And that makes something colder settle in my chest.
Do I really need to not suspect him??