Page 53 of Silent Schemes
Because thisisdifferent.
Varrick doesn't want to own me to use me.
He wants to own me to keep me, to protect me, to worship me in his own violent way.
"Say it," he demands against my skin. "Say you're mine."
"Yours," I gasp, and hate how easily the word falls from my lips.
His response is immediate and intense, showing me exactly what my surrender means to him.
The mat beneath us burns against my bare skin as we move together, two predators finally stopping their circling dance.
Neither of us knows how to be gentle—our coupling is as much battle as it is surrender.
"Look at me," he commands, and I force my eyes open, meeting his dark gaze. "I want to see you when you fall apart. Want you to know exactly whose cock is doing this to you."
The intensity in his eyes is almost too much.
No one has ever looked at me like this—like I'm precious and dangerous and necessary all at once.
My nails rake down his back, adding new wounds to our collection, and his response tells me he loves the pain as much as the pleasure.
"That's it, girl," he growls. "Mark me. Make me yours, too."
The admission that this possession goes both ways undoes something fundamental in me.
I've been trained to seduce, to perform, to fake passion for the mission.
But this is real, raw, unscripted.
Every response is genuine, every sound torn from somewhere deep inside I didn't know existed.
When release finally crashes over me, it's with his name on my lips—not whispered, not performed, but torn from my throat like a confession.
The terrible realization follows immediately: I'm completely, irrevocably compromised.
There's no going back from this, from him, from what we've just done.
He follows me over the edge, spilling inside me, my name a prayer and a curse on his lips, and in that moment, I understand what I've really done.
I haven't just compromised the mission—I've compromised everything.
After, we lie among the wreckage—torn clothes, a little blood, the mat askew.
My body aches in ways that have nothing to do with fighting.
I trace a scar on his chest, a long silver line that must have nearly killed him.
"Who gave you this?"
"Someone who claimed to love me."
The words carry weight, warning. "Did you kill them?"
"No. I let them go. Stupidest thing I ever did."
I understand what he's really saying.
