He groans into my mouth, and I use that moment to push back, trying to take control again. But Han is stronger than he looks, and for once, he's not letting me win.
"Frustrated?" he murmurs between kisses, smirking against my lips.
I bite at his jaw...
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I've told myself a thousand times: Don't be what they think you are. But that other voice—the one that festers in the darker corners of my mind—is louder, sharper, and infinitely more convincing. It doesn't whisper. It growls.
"Have you forgotten what they said to us? What they did?"
"They think you're a monster."
"...Prove them right."
It's relentless, coiling around my thoughts like smoke, turning everything black and hazy. And maybe it's right. Maybe I am exactly what they say I am. Maybe I don't even care anymore. Fighting it feels like drowning. Giving in feels like breathing fire.
And after what Han did... that voice isn't just growling. It's roaring.
My pulse pounds in my ears as the memory of him cuts through me—his sharp, defiant smirk, the heat of his hands, the way his lips had the audacity to leave me breathless one second and furious the next.
Han thinks he can play me like a fucking game. He thinks he can just disappear, leaving me teetering on the edge of chaos, and walk away unscathed. But he doesn't know. Not yet.
I've tried so hard to ignore this pull, this war he's waged in my chest every time we lock eyes. It's not just anger—it's hunger. And it's eating me alive. My fists clench, knuckles pale, as I picture his infuriating face. That smug, infuriating, gorgeous face. He's a fucking menace. A spark in a dry forest.
And me? I'm the wildfire waiting to be unleashed.
The worst part? It's not just revenge I want. It's him. I want to destroy him. Ruin him. Break him down so completely that he'll never walk away from me again. And the thought of him looking at me—not with defiance, but with submission, with need—God, it sends a dangerous thrill up my spine.
My head tips back, hitting the cold wall of my apartment as I try to focus on my breathing, but even that feels like a losing battle. Every inhale tastes like ash. Every exhale burns with his name.
The things I'd do to him if I had the chance. If he let me.
No.
Not "let me."
I don't need his permission.
My phone buzzes violently on the counter, dragging me out of my spiraling thoughts. It's a message.
From him.
Just his caller ID on my screen sends a surge of electricity through me, but I force myself not to react, not to immediately answer like some desperate fool. I let the phone buzz again. And again.
