Page 48 of My Bloody Valentine

“Would you kiss me like this if you weren’t trapped here?” The question slips out. “If you had a choice?”

Maya’s breath hitches. She tries to turn away, but I hold her still.

“Adrian, please...” Her voice wavers.

“Please, what?” I press my forehead to hers. “Please stop? Please let you go? Or please don’t stop?”

She trembles against me, and I can’t tell if it’s from desire or terror anymore. The line between willing participant and captive victim blurs, making me question everything.

“I don’t know.” Her whispered admission cuts deeper than any knife. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

I release her chin, fighting the urge to claim her mouth again. For the first time since bringing her here, doubt creeps in. Is Gabe right? Am I seeing what I want to see, mistaking Stockholm syndrome for genuine connection?

Maya leans forward, pressing her lips to mine with surprising gentleness. The kiss tastes of coffee and confusion, sweet yet bitter. When she pulls back, tears shine in her eyes.

“That’s the problem,” she murmurs. “I want you, and I hate myself for it.”

Maya’s words hang between us, heavy with meaning. She knows what she wants and what her body craves, but her mindis another story. A battle of conflicting desires is waging there. I understand that inner war all too well.

Seeing her struggle, something shifts within me. My chest tightens, and I pull her close, needing to feel the warmth of her skin against mine. I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the jasmine scent of her hair.

“You don’t have to hate yourself.” My voice rumbles against her ear. “There’s no shame in what we’re doing. In what you’re feeling.”

She sniffles, her hands fisting the fabric of my shirt. “I should. I know I should.”

Gently, I lift her chin, urging her to meet my gaze. “Why?”

Her eyes, wide and vulnerable, search mine as if seeking permission to speak. “Because it’s wrong. I’m a respected food critic, and you’re...” She swallows, and I see when she registers the weight of her words. “You’re a killer, and I still want you.”

That flicker of fear ignites a flame in her eyes, and I know what she’s asking without saying it.

Do you want me, too?

“Maya.” My voice drops to a whisper, and I bring our mouths together, demanding, insistent.

She moans into the kiss, and I can taste the moment she surrenders, letting go of her inhibitions and insecurities. Her hands move from my shirt to my hair, then trail down my neck, fingertips brushing my skin.

That simple touch sparks a fire in my veins, burning away my doubts. I want all of her, with an intensity that scares me.

Pulling away, I whisper against her lips, “Strip.” I back away, giving her space to move. “Get on the bed, on your hands and knees. Be a good girl for me.”

Her cheeks flush, but she does as I command, slowly removing her clothing and settling onto the bed.

“You like this, don’t you?” I ask, my voice low and gravelly. “Being on display for me. Wanting what I do to you.”

“Yes.” Her voice is throaty. “It’s embarrassing, but...”

“But you can’t help yourself.” I reach into the nightstand, withdrawing my mask. “You’re mine, and you love it.”

She watches me over her shoulder as I slip on the mask, hiding my face in shadow.

“Adrian, do you have to?—”

“Do I have to what, my little slut?” I trail the tip of my knife along her spine, down to the swell of her hips. “Wear my mask? Be in control?”

“No.” Her breath catches. “I mean, yes, I like it, but—are you going to...?”

“Tell me, Maya.” I lean close, my breath hot against her ear. “Do you want me to wear it while I fuck you?”

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