Page 165 of Quinlan

This wasn’t the wrong call. I get it. Still hate that she’s here. That she looks up at me, into my eyes, and sees me.

Her attention flickers to the three punching bags behind me, cautious before she returns them to me. I glower at her. Her cheeks redden, and she lets her gaze slip down my body. She can’t move her face because I hold her there by her neck, but her eyes wander.

Her cheeks turn a deeper shade of red when she takes in the straining muscles of my chest, of my abs. My joggers hang low on my waist—fuck gym shorts, hate those—and Quinlan’s attention stays there, her pulse racing.

She likes what she sees. A weakness that my feral, evil side leverages on.

“No, I’m not hungry.” My hand on her neck drags my prey closer. She looks up, eyelashes fluttering. “But you brought food, and we don’t let it go to waste in this house.”

“So you’re—”

“You’re going to eat it.”

“I’m not—”

The moment she opens her mouth, the chocolate bar goes in.

“Rome,” she murmurs around it.

“Bite down, Quinlan.”

The idea of force-feeding always seemed as abominable to me as starvation. And I don’t force-feed her. This isn’t it. This is a game. A power play. A game Quinlan’s on board with.

Satisfaction. Abundance of it. It’s swarming through my veins. Sick and depraved. Her obedience does that to me. Humiliating her, that’s another pleasant outcome. Gets my cock fucking hard.

“I’m so pleased.” I press her chin up, clamping her mouth shut. “Be a good girl for me and swallow.”

Quinlan’s throat bobs, and I tighten my grip on her neck, feeling it.

“Rome…”

“Again.”

I repeat the steps until there’s nothing left but the wrapper. I hurtle it to the side, breathing hard. She has some chocolate left on the seam of her lips, and I use my thumb to swipe at it and shove it into her mouth.

My pulse hammers as loud as hers. We stare at each other.

She’s waiting for me to say something.

“Want to tell me what you’re really doing here?” The question comes out harsh. Too harsh.

I’m aggressive.

This is bad, having her around me now. With Rex’s bastard face in the front of my mind. With her tears burned into my memory. While adrenaline doesn’t flow through my blood, it consumes it.

I’m a murderer. I haven’t killed anyone yet, but I might just as well be called one. I am going to kill the people who raised Anne and me. I’ll take my sweet time with it, too.

This is the person Quinlan’s staring at.

Bravely. Chin high. Shoulders pushed back.

She has no armor on. In one of Liam’s dress shirts, a pair of dark leggings and sneakers, she’s vulnerable. Breakable.

I shake my head internally. I don’t destroy beautiful, delicate creatures. Won’t ever crush her like I plan to do to the real monsters.

And she’s so beautiful. How does that even happen?

How come she doesn’t flinch?

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