Page 27 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“The fuck I don’t.” I rasp.

“No, you don’t,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You’re the one who keeps playing these fucking games with me. You push, you pull, you fuck me up, and then act surprised when I try to move on.”

I grab his wrist, holding it in place against my chest. “That’s what you call moving on?” I grind out. “Letting some half-conscious asshole slobber all over you?”

Roman jerks his arm back, but I don’t let go. His pulse is hammering beneath my fingers, but his voice is even when he speaks. “You think you’re any better? You act like you don’t want me, like I’m just some fucking nuisance in your life, and then you pull this possessive bullshit?” He yanks his wrist free and shoves me back a step. “Make up your goddamn mind, Damon.”

My jaw clenches. My mind is made up. It has been for a while.

He huffs out a breath, running both hands through his hair now, frustration rolling off him in waves. “You think I don’t know this is fucked? That I don’t wake up every morning telling myself I need to stop this—whatever the hell this is I’m feeling for you? But then you look at me, and it’s like—” He groans, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t have a fucking choice.”

I don’t say anything.

Because I get it.I fucking get it.It’s the same for me, but I won’t say that because I don’t like giving people that kind of power over me. And Roman? He already has too much.

The air between us feels like it’s about to snap, the tension crackling like static. He’s drunk, I can tell. But the way he’s looking at me right now, all wide-eyed and terrified, feels like he’s holding up a fucking mirror.

“You’re such a goddamn hypocrite.” My voice is shaking with anger now.

Roman glares, but his body betrays him. His breathing is uneven, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab me just as badly as I want to grab him. “Fuck you, Damon.”

“You’d like that too much,” I say, my lips curving into that smirk I know he hates.

His lips part slightly like he’s already waiting for whatever bullshit is about to come out of my mouth next. But then he scoffs. “You’re so full of shit.”

And just like that, the moment snaps. I clench my jaw, my hands balling into fists. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, running a frustrated hand through his hair again. “You say all this shit, but what do you actually want? You wanna fuck me, Damon? You wanna own me? You wanna hurt me?”

Yes.

Yes to all of it.

I fucking hate him. I hate the way he looks at me like that. I hate the way he gets under my skin like a damn parasite. And I hate that I want to kiss him anyway.

That’s why I don’t think when I grab him.

My hand wraps around his throat—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make him freeze. His eyes widen, and his breath hitches as I yank him closer, forcing him into my space like I need to suffocate in his scent to get my head straight.

“You wanna know why I was watching you, Hotshot?” I laugh bitterly, my grip flexing just enough to make his pulse jump against my palm. “Because I wanted a fucking reason to hate you again. No, Ineededa reason to hate you since every other excuse wasn’t working anymore!”

His lips part, his breath brushing against mine and something inside me snaps. I tighten my grip on his neck and kiss him. My lips crash against his and, for a second, he doesn’t move, like he’s too stunned to react.

Then his hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer as he kisses me back with just as much fire. It’s not soft or slow or any of those gentle things a kiss should be. It’s rough; desperate and angry. A sharp, foreign thrill rushes through me as the metal balls of his venom piercing roll against my tongue.

It’s fucking intoxicating the way they shift, adding a sharp edge to every slide of our tongues, every bite of our lips. Like he’s built to be kissed in the filthiest fucking ways.

Fuck, it’s different.

It’s messy and chaotic; all teeth and tongues and frustration. I can taste the whiskey on him as it mingles with the regret on my tongue. The rage, the fucking need—I pour it all into him, losing myself in the feel of metal and heat and Roman Bishop ruining me from the inside out.

I don’t know how long it lasts, but by the time we pull apart, we’re both breathing hard with our foreheads pressed together.

His breath brushes against my lips, hot and unsteady, and I can feel the tension rippling off him like a livewire. My hand is still at his throat and his grip on my shirt hasn’t loosened. It’s like we’re locked in this moment, too angry or too stupid to pull away.

“You gonna let go, Trouble?” he asks.

“You gonna stop looking at me like that, Hotshot?” I shoot back.

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