Page 59 of Chains of Recompense
“I don’t care about women?” he says, voice tight. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Because it seems like the only reason you don’t want to hear the truth is because of the repercussions your actions caused—not because you have any qualms with the fact thatyou destroyed me.”
His eyes flash, and he moves so fast, it takes a moment for my whiskey-addled brain to register it.
One second, I’m glaring defiantly.
The next, he’s in my space, arms caging me in, trapping me against the wall once more.
He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of his anger radiating from his body.
The oxygen vanishes from the room, and my breath hitches as an inexplicable electricity crackles to life between us.
It’s a connection I shouldn’t still want but can’t ignore.
My heart flutters as he lowers his face toward mine, his voice quiet but lethal. “You want to talk about using people? You knew no one would touch you if they knew your last name. So you went looking for someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions, someone you could pin the blame on if things didn’t go your way.”
I scoff, but I’m too breathless to make it convincing. “Like I was some criminal mastermind. I was barely eighteen. I had no clue what I was getting myself into.”
His hand slams against the wall beside my head, making me jump. “Stop pretending you were some innocent fawn who wandered into the woods and got mauled.”
The suggestion that I would lie about what really happened just to punish Raf or protect my reputation cuts deeper each time he hurls the accusation my way.
He can’t fathom just how deeply those three nights impacted my life, how irrevocably they changed my future, how brutally his rejection shaped who I’ve become.
And his words set loose an explosion of emotion inside me, an anger that only this infuriating man can trigger.
I don’t think before my hand is lashing out of its own accord.
The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot. His head jerks sideways, unbruised cheek reddening instantly from where my palm connected with his skin. Then my stomach drops as I realize what I just did—who I just hit.
Raf’s fingers flex, and for one fleeting second, I think he might hit me back. It’s not unusual for men in our world to get violent with their women.
From what I’ve heard, Raf’s no stranger to the sight, growing up with Augusta Chiaroscuro as a father.
And I almost want him to do it.
I want him to give me an excuse to hate him more than I already do, to prove that he’s just as irredeemable as the man who raised him.
I silently dare him to do his worst and see what happens.
When he doesn’t, white-hot fury obliterates my rational mind.
With a high-pitched growl of frustration, I go to slap him a second time, and Raf snatches my wrist mid-swing, then he’s pinning my hands above my head, his body aligning with mine, forcing me back against the wall so I’m trapped, immobilized between him and the solid surface.
He’s not hurting me, not even squeezing hard. Just stopping me, keeping me from lashing out again.
His breath brushes my face—furious, ragged, and hot. “The next time you slap me won’t come without a consequence,” he growls.
My heart hammers painfully against my ribs, and I can’t tell if I’m terrified or aroused—which only pisses me off more. “What are you going to do?” I spit. “Toss me aside again?”
His eyes flash. “I should.”
“Then do it,” I hiss, all that hurt and rejection coursing like venom through my veins.
We’re too close.
Too tense.
