Page 18 of Poisonous Savage

Inthe end, it was her call.Wouldshe choose the devil she knew?Orwould she dance with death and choose me in spite of it all?

Assleep finally dragged me under,Icouldn’t shake the feeling that no matter what, our paths were tied together—a collision course set in motion, and the fallout would be fucking catastrophic.

ROSALIND

Isank into the steaming bath, the heat seeping deep, unraveling the day's knots.Withan unsteady hand,Ipoured red wine into my glass.Itwas 3 am, the witching hour, and my mind was a goddamn battlefield.Justhours ago, those psycho blue eyes softened when he saw his mama, and it damn near cracked the ice around my heart.

"Fuck,"Imuttered to the shadows, tipping the glass back.Thewine slithered down my throat too easily.Ipoured another with a sigh.Hunter’simage sat heavy in my mind.Theman was a brute—plain and simple.Heowned me.Somehow,Iliked the rough way he used me for his own pleasure, butIalso wanted more.Iwanted the tender touch of someone who took their time with me.Whoenjoyed me.ButMarco, shit,Marcotreated melikeIwas something precious, something to be cherished.Revered.

Myreflection wavered in the water, bags under my eyes.Anothergulp of wine and the liquid courage filled my veins with fire, emboldening desiresIshould've feared.Desiresfor a man who wasn't my husband, for stolen moments that would bring me pleasure.

Damnyou,Marco.Iclosed my eyes against the swell of emotion.Thealcohol worked its wicked magic, stripping away my inhibitions, layer by sinful layer.Myskin flushed with warmth, a heady rush that had nothing to do with the water.Anidea formed in my mind, oneItried to shove down, but the harderItried, the more it rebelled.

Carefullystepping out,Idried and walked into my room.Clothes... clothes... where are my damn clothes?Ah, fuck it.Istumbled out of the bedroom, my legs shaky and the oversized t-shirt clinging to my flushed skin.

Thehouse was quiet, except for the creaks from my feet on the stairs.Myheart thudded asIshuffled through the dim hallway.Eachstep was a reckless defiance of the rational voice that slurred in the back of my mind, telling me to crawl back into the safety of my bed.

Butno.Ineeded him.Wantedhim, more accurately.

Thekitchen light spilled out onto the tiles.Andthere he was.Hisback faced me, broad and tense.Hetipped thewhiskey bottle to his glass, the liquid amber catching the light as he sipped.

Fuck.IfIdid this, there was no going back.Ifell against a cabinet and muttered under my breath asIrubbed my elbow.Somuch for being quiet.

Hishead turned at the sound, those blues piercing the gloom, finding me with ease.Isaw the tightening of his jaw, the shift of muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt as he took me in—the disheveled curls, the bare thighs belowHunter'sshirtI'dclaimed as my own.

"Rosie," his voice was a rough growl, a touch of concern beneath it.

Ididn't need words.Myfeet carried me to him, each step a gamble, a dance with damnation.Marcowatched, dead-still, the lines of his face etched with shadows and something darker, deeper—a hunger.

Myheart hammered against my chest asIclosed the distance, my mind a whirlpool of need and the dangerous thrill of betrayal.Thescent of his cologne mixed with the tang of whiskey was a heady drug, pulling me closer and unraveling the last threads of my resolve.

Ireached for him, fingers grazing the cool countertop, seeking the heat of his skin.Hishand caught mine.Ashe set it down, the clink of his glass echoed in the silence, a solemn toast to the chaos we were about to unleash.

Myfingers tangled in his, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the cool marble beneath my own.Ileaned closer, the fabric of my shirt brushing against his arm, my lips parted asIexhaled a wine-soaked breath that whispered over his skin.

"Mmmmm, hi sexy,"Islurred.Isounded wanton, andIdidn't care.Boozegave me the liftIneeded.Iwas gonna do this.

Myhand crept up his arm, tracing the outline of muscles that rippled beneath his shirt, my touch bold, unapologetic.Theworld tilted at the edges, with blurred lines and soft focus, but the heat fromMarco'sbody was real, undeniable.Iswayed towards him, my intentions clear as the space between us shrank to nothing.

"Fuck,Rosie," it held a note of warning. "Whatare you doing, woman?Youshould be sleeping."

Hestood, towering over me, his hands gentle as they found my waist, steadying me.Ahint of restraint flickered behind those ocean eyes, a battle of want versus should.Butit was the protective firmness in his grip, the way he anchored me to reality, that pulled me back from the precipice of recklessness.

"Upstairs," he commanded.

Inodded, my head heavy on my neck, and allowed him to guide me.Hishand slid down to clasp mine, his gripsecure, leading me away from the kitchen's dim glow.Wemoved through shadows, our footfalls silent on the thick carpet, each step punctuating the night's stillness.

Thestairs were a challenge, my legs wobbly and weak, butMarco'spresence was a steady force beside me.Hedidn't speak, didn't need to; his every move spoke volumes—the care in his hold, the hand at my back.

Wereached the top; the hallway stretched long and dark.Myroom waited, a sanctuary bathed in moonlight, the bed an inviting expanse of sheets and shadows.

"Sleep, beautiful," he grunted, his voice thick with unsaid things.

"Don't—"Hiccup. "Don'tyou want me?Yousaid?—"

Heled me toward the bed, his hands never faltering, never moving from the respectable position it rested on.Theedge of the mattress greeted the backs of my knees, andIfolded onto the softness, the world spinning just a bit slower now.

"Sunshine,I'vewanted you since we were teenagers.ButIcan't have you.Notlike this.Maybenot ever."

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