Her hand was a brand on my chest, her words a victor's claim.
"Your heart is terrible at it."
She was smiling. A small, knowing smile that ripped through my control and set my blood on fire. She thought she had won. She thought she had figured out the game.
The soldier in my head screamed a single command: Neutralize the threat.
My hand shot out, clamping around her wrist. The bones felt fragile, delicate, under my grip. I yanked her hand from my chest and twisted, using her own momentum to spin her around. She cried out in surprise as her back slammed against the cold, hard glass of the wall overlooking the lake.
She was trapped.
I pressed my body against hers, one hand pinning her wrist, the other slamming against the glass next to her head. Her scent—vanilla and the soap from her shower—filled my lungs, a sweet poison. Her eyes were wide, the victory gone, replaced by a flicker of shock. Good.
"You think this is a game?" I growled, my face inches from hers. The words were a low vibration against her skin.
"Dante..." she breathed, her chest rising and falling rapidly against mine.
"You wanted the truth, Izzy?" I used her name like a weapon, a shard of glass. "You want to feel the truth?"
I didn't wait for an answer. I took her mouth.
This wasn't like the first time. That was a moment of weakness. This was a punishment. A lesson. I kissed her with a slow, calculated cruelty. I wanted to scare her. I wanted to show her the monster she was poking with a stick. I wanted her to push me away, to run, to remember that I was dangerous.
Her lips were soft, hesitant under the brutal pressure of mine. I bit down on her bottom lip, just hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from her. A tiny, metallic taste of blood bloomed between us.
That would do it. That would break her.
But it didn't.
Something inside her snapped. The hesitation vanished. A low, broken whimper escaped her throat, and it wasn't a sound of pain. It was a sound of need. Her free hand, which had been pushing weakly against my chest, suddenly fisted in my shirt, pulling me impossibly closer.
She wasn't fighting me. She was surrendering to the fall. She kissed me back, meeting my punishment with a desperate hunger of her own.
My entire strategy shattered. The soldier lost the war. The man took over.
My control broke. A guttural groan was ripped from my chest. My hand left the wall and tangled in her hair, gripping tight as I tilted her head back. The kiss was no longer a punishment. It was a firestorm. I was lost. Drowning in the taste of her.
And then I remembered. Marcos. My father. The mission.
With every last shred of my will, I tore myself away from her.
I stumbled back, breathing hard, the taste of her and her blood on my lips. I looked at her, ready to see the fear in her eyes. The fear I needed to see to put the walls back up.
But there was no fear.
She was leaning against the glass, her body trembling. Her lips were swollen and red. Her eyes were dark, hazy, pupils blown wide with a desire so raw it hit me like a physical blow.
She didn't look broken. She didn't look scared.
She looked like she was finally awake. And she was staring at me like she wanted to burn the whole world down,
starting with me.