Page 129 of The Devil We Crave
My scream of terror curdles in my throat as I shove away from it, my legs giving out as I start to topple back.
A strong hand seizes a hank of my hair at the nape, wrapping it in a fist and yanking me back upright, angling my face to his.
Achilles.
I stare at him, my breath still coming in haggard, staccato bursts. My mouth opens to say…I don’t even know what. Then it shuts again. Then opens.
“You’re an asssssholle,” I spit into his face.
Achilles doesn’t blink and doesn’t move. He just levels those dark devil eyes at me, his chiseled jaw grinding.
“I mean it!!” I scream at him. “You’re anasssssshooo?—”
“That’s nice.”
It happens so fast, I can barely process it. One second I’m standing in front of him, glaring into his stupidly perfect, gorgeous face and calling him an asshole.
The next second, he's flinging me over his shoulder like a sack of laundry.
“Stop it!” I screech, kicking and thrashing, pounding my fists on his back. “You’re anasshole!” I blurt. “You’re anassssshoollle?—”
“Andyou, little prey,” he growls as he starts to march away with me over his shoulder, “are coming with me.”
24
YELENA
Rain poundson the Range Rover's windshield as Achilles guns the engine. Lighting crashes and thunder booms, making me tremble in the passenger seat.
I’m soaked to the skin from him carrying me over his shoulder out of the party, across the freakishly narrow stone causeway that connects The Spire to the main cliffs and then all the way along the cliff path to where his car was parked.
But stillthrobbing.
The ecstasy courses through my veins, turning my skin electric and setting my nerve endings ablaze. I’m trying to glare daggers at the prick next to me, but keep getting distracted by howgoodthe leather seat feels under my bare thighs. How nice it feels to run my fingers over the trim on the door next to me. How magical the glow of the dashboard display is.
I bite my lip as I squeeze my thighs together against the throbbing, needy ache between them.
Okay, it’s the drugs. But it’s also the proximity to this asshole.
His pheromones, teasing my senses, pulling all sorts of triggers inside me.
How freakingattractivehe is, even now in soaking wet jeans and a black t-shirt, little rivulets of rainwater dripping from his hair down his ridiculously perfect face.
“Where are you taking me?” I mutter.
Achilles doesn’t answer. His face is grim and tight, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead of us as lighting crashes again. The flash sends shadows sliding across his face as he grips the wheel tighter.
“Answer me, asshole,” I snap.
He picks up his phone, his gaze switching between it and the road.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He types haltingly.
“Answer me!” I scream. “What are you?—”
“I’m texting Arianna that I have you, I know you took drugs, and you’re safe.”
