Page 28 of The Brotherhood

Heat curled through her at the thought, and she forced herself to keep moving, to keep seeing. Her gaze dipped lower, over the broad plane of his chest, the sharply cut ridges of his abdomen. He was designed to be powerful, efficient, deadly—yet all she could think about was how he had felt against her. Inside her.

Her breath stuttered, her lips parting slightly as she swallowed hard.

Her gaze reached his mouth. She had imagined them returning her kiss, imagined them moving over hers, slow and deliberate rather than desperate and consuming.

Now, she wondered what they would feel like when he wasn’t fighting himself.

And then, she finally met his eyes again and found him watching her open inspection. The air between them cracked with tension as the red flecks shimmered and burned within his gaze. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. His jaw was tight, his body taut like a predator caught between attack and restraint.

“Handy,” she whispered, the sound barely there, but enough.

A ripple of tension moved through his frame, his breath drawing slow and deep, as if the sound of her voice had physically hit him.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, his lips parted, and his voice came, low, hoarse, almost reverent. “Poppy.”

****

It was a blade to his chest, her voice.

Handy fought to stay still. Fought not to react to his body’s needs, the unbearable pull of the imprint. Demanding he touch. Claim. Take.

She was looking at him—seeing him—and he was caught in a storm of hunger to be seen and fear of what she might see.

Her gaze had traveled over him slowly, tracing the lines of his body, his features. He had studied her curiosity, the way her breath stuttered when she reached his mouth, the way her pulse had jumped when their eyes met.

She should have feared him. Should have recoiled. And she hadn’t. She wanted him. And seeing it turned the storm into something deadlier. His fists clenched against his thighs, his mechanical hand twitching under the sheer need in his system. She was right there. The source of everything inside him that felt real. The soft heat of her skin, the delicate curve of her body, the way her breath still carried the remnants of him.

Mine.

The meaning almost felt like a curse. He had sworn he wouldn’t be a husband. That she would be nothing but a prisoner. But that wasn’t the truth. She wasn’t a prisoner, he was. Bound to her. Caged by her. Ruined by her. She had given him something he could never give back. It wasn’t just the act, it wasn’t just the imprint. It was thewayshe had taken him. Accepted him, even when he had been lost in his own damnation. When he had only been an echo, a fraction of a man stitched together from the remnants of something else.

Now, he was whole. And it was her fault.

His breathing was sharp, controlled, but it didn’t stop the way his body betrayed him. His muscles were too tight, his nerves too awake. His cock ached, because she was here, because she was his. Because he had already had her once and it would never be enough.

A slow, torturous punishment.

His hand flexed, the synthetic metal making the faintest sound as his fingers curled. No. Not again. Not like that. He suddenly couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Because if he did—the restraint would break. And he would take her the way he needed to.

“Poppy.”

Her body reacted before her mind did, her breath catching. His gaze dropped to the delicate shiver in her throat, the subtle, betraying arch of her spine, wanting to be closer. Wanting him. He clenched his jaw, the war inside him tearing apart reason and restraint. Her need pulsed in her like an unspoken plea. She didn’t understand it yet, but he did. She was aching for him. And he had taken his pleasure from her.

It was only fair to give it back.

His hand trembled as he reached for her, his mechanical fingers hovering just above her skin before he finally let himself touch. The softest graze, trailing down her arm, along the curve of her waist. She shivered, a quiet gasp slipping from her lips.

The way her body responded to him was too much.

He exhaled sharply, lowering himself beside her. He didn’t kiss her—not yet. He just let himself feel her, the way her heat pulled at him, demanded more.

His lips found the column of her throat, slow, deliberate. His tongue flicked against the delicate pulse beating wildly beneath her skin, savoring the way she arched into him. She wanted this, needed it. And he would give it to her. But this time, he would take nothing in return.

He explored her with his brand new fingers, mapping every reaction. He didn’t have to guess what pleasured her. The imprint told him—showed him—let him feel it through her.

He traced slow punishments over her sensitive skin, his touch both cruel and reverent, never quite giving her what she silently begged for.

Poppy whimpered, arching, searching.

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