Serpentine Desires

The predator

Fuck this little woman.

I watched her as she sat there with her head down, pretending like she wasn't trembling, like her defiance wasn't crumbling under my gaze. But I could see it all—the subtle shake of her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched against the table. And yet, she kept her chin tilted up just enough to mock me.

She thought she could get under my skin. Thought she could fuck with my head by parading around in that goddamn lace.

And she succeeded.

When she'd walked out like that, wearing that, looking like some cursed combination of an angel and a temptress, my first instinct was to kill every man in the room. My men—men I trusted with my life—had dared to look at her. Their gazes had lingered, even for a fraction of a second, and I wanted to gouge out their eyes and shove them down their throats.

I clenched my fists at the thought, my nails biting into my palms. It wasn't their fault. They were men. I'd brought them here to protect her, to make sure she didn't try to run again and get herself killed in the goddamn snow. But I hadn't anticipated this.

She had planned it—plotted it, even. That red lace. The way it clung to her like a second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. My imagination didn't have to work hard, not with the way the straps framed her shoulders, the delicate fabric barely covering the curve of her breasts. Her stomach, soft and sun-kissed, dipped into the lace like an invitation, and the thin strip that ran down between her thighs—fuck. My cock twitched at the memory, and I growled low in my throat.

Even now, sitting there in her rebelliousness, she was mine. Mine to protect, mine to punish, mine to— Oh, for crying out loud, not this nonsense again.

I shook my head and my jaw tightened. Not now. Not like this. Definitely not while she's looking at me like she's plotting my death. 

But she was testing me, wasn't she? Pushing me, daring me to snap. Her fear was there, shimmering in her eyes, but she refused to back down. Brave little thing. Or stupid. Did she know how badly I wanted to bend her over that table right now? To rip that lace off her body and remind her who she belonged to?

She'd looked so fucking scared, so small when I'd grabbed her. And yet, her lips parted as though she wanted to challenge me. To fight me, even. Did she think I wouldn't? That I couldn't?

I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her until she couldn't walk, couldn't think, couldn't dream of pulling another stunt like this. And I would've, too, if not for that flicker of something in her eyes—something that stopped me.

I hated it. That look. The one that made me think twice.

It wasn't just fear. It was something deeper. A fragility that no matter how much she fought to hide it, bled through. It wasn't her screaming agitation that got to me. It was that quiet, broken part of her she thought I couldn't see.

And maybe that's why I hadn't taken her right there. Why I'd dragged her to the table instead of throwing her against the wall. 

I clenched my teeth, watching her now as she hesitated over the plate of food. She wasn't even looking at me anymore, but she knew. She knew exactly what she'd done. And she was winning, wasn't she? Fucking winning.

My voice came out sharp, venomous. "Pick up the fork, ptichka."

Ptichka. The only word that gave me semblance.

Her hand twitched, reaching for it, but still she hesitated. God, she was infuriating. My patience was threadbare, hanging on by a fucking string, and she kept tugging at it with every tiny rebellion.