Page 4 of Betrayed in the Dark
“Fuck your fiancé.” His eyes darken, chaos brewing beneath the surface. The tiny flecks of gold that I used to count swirl delicately with the deep brown until they vanish entirely.
With his eyes locked on mine, his fingers clutching my neck, and his comforting scent—cedar with a hint of spice—wrapped around me, a familiar ache blooms in my chest. It’s a deep, unsettling pain that tries to drag me under the surface. It’s the reminder I need to douse the flames brewing between us.
“I can’t do this.” I push away from him, his hand falling as I slip past.
He’s letting me go.
It shouldn’t surprise me.
And I shouldn’t want him to fight for me.
To prove to me that he was wrong.
That the letter was just a momentarily lapse of judgment.
One he wrote in the heat of the moment and never should have followed through with by sending to me.
I shouldn’t want any of that.
But I do.
A brief sting of disappointment washes over me as I step away. That is, until his fingers wrap around my shoulder, spinning me and pushing my back against the door. My breaths come out rapidly as he bends down, bringing his face merely a few inches from mine.
I know this face.
I know the hard edges of his chiseled jaw.
I know the way his stubble feels when he rests his cheek against my palm.
And I know how those soft lips taste.
God, do I remember.
I’ve been cursed during these months apart, unable to forget.
Even when I’ve tried so desperately to.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice unsteady as his chest brushes against mine. Every nerve ending in my body comes alive, waiting for what happens next. The anticipation of it alters my mind, temporarily causing me to forget why I should hate this man.
His palms rest on each side of my head, his body covering mine like a fortress I could never escape.
“Answer my question first.”
I stare at him, forgetting what he asked of me. Forgetting what fucking year it is as his lips slide across my cheek to my ear.
“What. Game. Are you playing?” His nose travels down my neck, stopping at my collarbone before his eyes meet mine under those dark lashes. “The Madeleine I know wouldn’t be doing this.” Softly, his lips press against my skin, leaving heat in their wake. “This isn’t you.”
This isn’t you.
The words bring me right back to reality.
Back to a world where knights in shining armor don’t exist.
And men don’t actually mean it when they say those three words.
My hands at my sides clench into fists, my blood boiling with liquid rage.
“This isn’t me?” I repeat, a sardonic smile splashing across my face. “Who are you to pretend like you know me?”
