She didn't even close the door behind her.
Just walked out of my room, leaving the taste of her lips in the air, my cock hard in my pants, and my mind—completely fucking ruined.
I stood there for a moment.
Silent.
Breathing like I'd just come back from war.
My hand was still tangled in her scent-soaked hair strands. My pulse drummed in my ears. I could feel her lipstick—a ghost between my thighs. And the worst part?
She didn't do it to please me.
She did it to control me.
She'd brought me to my knees without ever laying down.
Smart girl.
Deadly girl.
I gritted my teeth and ran a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal.
I hadn't been touched like that in years.
Not because I couldn't have it.
Because I never allowed it.
But her?
That mouth. Those eyes. That goddamn robe that barely clung to her skin like it was afraid of what lay beneath.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
And now, all I could think about was how I'd take it back.
Not just the control.
But her. Entirely.
No. Not yet. Not like that.
I didn't want her on her knees again.
I wanted her shaking beneath me, whispering my name through gritted teeth, hating how much she needed me.
Because that's what she's afraid of.
Not death.
Desire.
And I'm going to feed her both.
I watched her the next morning from the upper balcony overlooking the training room.
She didn't know I was there.
She was sparring with one of the guards, wearing tight black pants and a sleeveless top that clung to her body like second skin. Her movements were graceful, brutal—like violence was a dance she'd choreographed from birth.
The guard struck.
She dodged.
She didn't even blink.
God, she was lethal.
And beautiful.
And the worst part?
She was dangerous to me.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it.
I couldn't look away.
I was becoming a man I swore I'd never be again—watching, wanting, craving.
She played me.
And I let her.
I wanted to hate it.
But the thing about predators?
They don't just hunt what runs.
They hunt what fights back.
Later that night, I waited.
Not in my room.
In hers.
I let myself in, sat in the chair by the window, poured myself a glass of her wine, and watched the stars outside like I owned them too.
When she walked in, she froze.
Barefoot. Hair loose. Robe wrapped around her like armor. Those sharp, untrusting eyes landing right on mine.
"You're in the wrong room," she said coldly.
I took a sip, slow.
"Am I?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
I stood, walked toward her, not fast—but like I had all the time in the world to unravel her.
She didn't move. But her spine went rigid.
I stopped just before I touched her.
"You tasted like sin last night," I said low against her ear. "And now I'm cursed with the need for more."
Her breath hitched.
I smiled.
Predators don't just bite.
They wait.