Page 84 of Don't You Pucking Dare

He strips off my underwear—last piece of armor gone. "You're losing this game fast, Duchess."

"You didn’t answer."

"I don’t hate you."

Standing naked while he remains fully clothed should feel degrading. Instead, it feels like penance. "You can't want me after what I did." My voice breaks. "Do you even believe what Itold you about Jack? You know that I was telling the truth, right? It wasn’t something I made up."

"I believe you did what trapped animals do." He sits on my bed, eyes never leaving my naked form. "Lashed out at the nearest threat."

Something in my chest cracks. He sees through me so easily, understands the desperate fear that made me try to push him away. After my mother's rejection, after watching my father die, after everything—I couldn't bear to wait for Brody to decide I wasn't worth keeping.

"Why did I do it then?" My voice comes out challenging despite my vulnerability. "Since you know so much?"

His eyes travel my body, but there's something different in his gaze now. Not just hunger—understanding. "Because your mother proved you were never wanted. So why would I want you for anything but fucking?"

The truth of it hits like a physical blow. Every abandonment, every rejection, every person who's proven I'm not enough—they all led to this moment. To me trying to destroy whatever this is before Brody could.

"Is that all this is?" I gesture to my naked body, to the space between us. "Just fucking?"

He laughs, but it's not his usual cruel sound. "Maybe I'm fucked up. Maybe this is the only way I know to show I care."

"What?" The word comes out breathless. Because this can't be real—Brody Black doesn't care.

"Sex is the deepest human connection, isn't it?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "The most honest?"

I want to believe him, but fear holds me back. "Aren't you a puck boy, Brody?" The words taste bitter. "You would take any girl."

"I care whose skin I'm under." Something dark and possessive enters his tone. "I care that you're not in my lap right now, apologizing with that pretty mouth."

Heat floods my body despite my uncertainty. Because he's right—this is how we communicate best. Through touch and taste and claiming. Words just get in the way, become weapons we use against each other.

I take a step toward him, then another. His hands find my hips as soon as I'm in reach, pulling me between his spread legs. The fabric of his jeans scratches my bare thighs, reminder of how exposed I am while he remains clothed.

"I'm sorry." The words come easier than expected. "For what I did."

His fingers dig into my skin. "I know why you did it."

"I was scared." Another truth I didn't mean to voice.

"Scared?" His thumb traces circles on my hip.

Everything about Brody terrifies me—his violence, his gentleness, the way he sees straight through my defenses. But most of all, I'm terrified by how much I crave him anyway.

Instead of answering, I lean down to kiss him. He lets me set the pace, keeps his hands still on my hips while I explore his mouth. It feels different than before—less like a claiming, more like a conversation.

When I pull back, his eyes have darkened. "Still want me to leave, Duchess?"

"No." The admission costs something, but I'm tired of this game. "Stay."

His smile turns predatory. "Good."

The praise shouldn't affect me the way it does. I shouldn't want this man who tortured me, who used me as bait, who understands my darkness better than anyone. But I do.

He pulls back and whispers, "Don't you fucking dare do that to me again because I will murder someone, and it might just be you."

"Brody Black," I whisper, tasting the violence in his name, savoring it like blood on my tongue. His threat wraps around me like a collar—perfect, crushing, ours. I drag my lips across his. "My heart is yours too," I murmur sarcastically.

He takes off his pants, and the predatory gleam in his eyes makes my breath catch. This is what we are—violence and tenderness wrapped in a dance of possession. His hands find my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, marking me as his. The pain blooms like music through my body, a crescendo building with every touch.

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