—Natasha's POV—
The silence in the car was alive, a stifling thing. His words—"You're going to tell me whose mark that is."—hung between us, sharp as a blade about to drop. My mind fought for a lie, for any lie that could temper the fire raging in his eyes, but all that I could cobble together was an empty, guilty silence. My lips parted, but nothing came out. I just stared at him, a trapped animal caged in the ferocity of his rage.
My silence was my guilt.
A harsh, raw cry ripped from Enzo's throat. The last remnant of his restraint broke. His hand rose, not to hit me, but to cradle the back of my head, his fingers locked in my hair, holding me fast. There was no gentleness in the action, only a frenzied, angry possession.
And then he kissed me.
It hadn't been the kiss I'd fantasized
