Page 30 of Hunted to the Altar
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "I don’t know what you mean."
I closed the distance between us, towering over her. The challenge in her eyes was intoxicating. "You know exactly what I mean."
Her lips parted, but before she could retort, I reached out, brushing my fingers along her jaw. She froze, her breath catching.
"Keep testing me, Nina," I murmured. "You won’t like what happens."
"You think I’m afraid of you?" she shot back, but her voice wavered, betraying her.
I leaned in, my lips grazing her ear. "I don’t need you to beafraid. I just need you to understand that every time you defy me, you lose."
Her body tensed, her fists clenching at her sides, but she didn’t pull away. The tension between us was suffocating, a taut string ready to snap. And for a moment, I reveled in it, in the way she challenged me, the way she made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in years.
I stepped back deliberately, putting distance between us, though I could still feel the pull of her presence. The air between us vibrated with unsaid things, her eyes boring into mine with a defiance that both infuriated and captivated me.
“You’ll see,” I whispered, almost to myself. “One day, you’ll understand.”
As she turned and stormed off, I watched her retreat, a slow smile spreading across my lips. She was chaos. She was bold.
I wasn’t done with her yet. Not tonight.
Later, when the penthouse had settled into its nightly stillness, I found her in the bedroom getting herself ready. She fascinated me.
Not just in the way a man is drawn to a woman—though God knew I was pulled to her like she had gravity in her skin, but in the way an unsolvable puzzle gnaws at the edges of your mind, making you desperate to understand it.
I wasn’t used to women moving like Nina did. Deliberate. Unhurried. Not for show, not for seduction, but because she simply existed in a rhythm that was her own. She didn’t rush for anyone, not even me.
I leaned against the doorway of the en suite, arms crossed as I watched her in front of the vanity. She hadn’t acknowledged me yet, which meant I’d either pissed her off, or she was pretending I wasn’t there.
Her silence was a test.
The overhead light was off, the only illumination coming from the warm glow of the vanity bulbs that framed the mirror.They cast her in a golden hue, highlighting the deep richness of her skin, the soft curve of her bare shoulder as she pulled her braids over one side.
She still smelled like the lavender scrub she used in the shower—natural, earthy, a scent that would cling to my sheets when I finally got her to stop pretending she didn’t want to sleep in my bed.
I’d been in love with computers for as long as I could remember. Code made sense. It was predictable. If something didn’t work, I could break it down and find the exact line that needed fixing.
Nina was the opposite.
She didn’t need fixing. She was already built perfectly for herself, and she didn’t give a damn if I understood her or not.
She opened a jar of shea butter, scooping a generous amount into her palm and warming it between her hands before smoothing it over her legs. She worked slowly, massaging the rich moisture into her skin until it gleamed in the light.
I was fucking hypnotized.
“You just gonna stare, or you planning on helping?” Her voice was thick with exhaustion, but she didn’t bother looking at me.
“Didn’t know this was a two-person job.” My smirk was automatic, but she still didn’t look up. “I thought self-care was a solo thing.”
She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You say self-care. I say maintenance.”
I pushed off the doorway and took slow steps toward her, watching the way her eyes finally flicked to me in the mirror as I approached.
“What’s the difference?” I asked, coming up behind her.
She sighed like she was already tired of explaining something she knew I wouldn’t fully understand. “Self-care is indulgence. This—” she gestured at the routine she was workingthrough, “—this is just what has to be done. My skin can’t be out here ashy, my hair can’t be neglected, and my edges—” she pointed at her hairline, “—are a priority. You men get to roll out of bed, splash water on your faces, and be done. We don’t have that luxury.”
I watched her as she picked up a boar bristle brush and worked her edges into place, the sleek waves forming in patterns that I was sure took skill. I knew better than to touch, but I was tempted.
