🔥 Chapter 19 - "Want Without Mercy"
1286 Words
The safe room smelled like steel and ozone.
Locked spaces always have a scent—sealed air, recycled breath, the faint echo of panic pressed into walls that were built to survive it.
Marco stood a step away from me.
Too close to pretend this was just strategy. Too far to touch without choosing it.
Outside, the house roared—boots, orders, metal slamming into metal. Inside, time folded in on itself. Every sound felt distant, dulled, like we were underwater.
I became painfully aware of my breathing.
Slow. Then not.
Marco noticed.
His eyes lifted to mine—not sharp now, not commanding. Focused. Like he was counting my breaths instead of threats.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
“I am.”
“Not enough.”
I hated that he was right.
I dragged in air through my nose, let it out through my mouth. My chest still felt tight, like something was pressing from the inside.
He shifted closer.
Not touching.
Just close enough that his warmth reached me, a low, steady presence. The kind that anchors whether you want it or not.
“Why do you always do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Stand there like you’re giving me space,” I said, “when we both know you’re not.”
His mouth curved—barely. Not a smile. Recognition.
“Because if I don’t,” he said, “I’ll take more than you’re ready to give.”
My pulse jumped.
I looked away first.
The room felt smaller now. The walls closer. The lock heavier.
I wrapped my arms around myself—not defensive. Grounding.
“How long will we be here?” I asked.
“Until it’s clean.”
“And if it isn’t?”
His silence answered before he did.
I swallowed. “I don’t like cages.”
“I know.”
That word again. Not I figured. Not I assumed.
I know.
I turned back to him. “Then why does it feel like you’re building one around me?”
He stepped closer.
This time, he didn’t stop.
My back brushed the wall—cold through thin fabric. He placed one hand beside my head, palm flat against steel. Not trapping me. Not freeing me.
Claiming the space.
“You’re wrong,” he said softly. “I’m standing inside it with you.”
Our eyes locked.
Something in his expression had shifted—less control, more restraint. Like a man holding himself together by force of will alone.
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Marco's pov.
I planted my hand on the wall beside her head—close enough that my knuckles brushed her hair. Not touching her. Not yet.
The wall was cold. She wasn’t.
I felt the difference instantly, like heat radiating off a live wire. Her breath stuttered, just once, and she hated herself for it. I saw it in the tightening of her jaw, the way her shoulders squared as if she could force her body into obedience.
“You always do that,” she said, voice steady but thin. “Corner me without touching me.”
“Because if I touch you,” I replied quietly, “you’ll feel it longer.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine. Dark. Furious. A little unsteady.
“Get away from me.”
I leaned closer instead—slow, deliberate—until the space between us was no longer air but tension. My forearm pressed into the wall above her shoulder, my body boxing her in without fully closing the distance.
“This isn’t me trapping you,” I said. “This is me stopping myself.”
She laughed once. Sharp. “You want credit for restraint?”
“No,” I said. “I want you to understand the cost of it.”
My other hand lifted—paused midair, a question I didn’t ask out loud—then settled lightly at her arm. Barely pressure. Just enough to feel the fine shiver run through her like a confession.
She sucked in a breath.
I traced my thumb slowly along her arm, feeling the way her skin responded, how the tension there gave way inch by inch.
“You’re already reacting,” I murmured.
Her head turned to the side, denying me her mouth, her eyes, any sign of surrender. The movement exposed her neck, pale and vulnerable in a way she would never allow if she were thinking clearly.
I leaned in—not to kiss.
My lips brushed just beneath her ear, a whisper of contact. Then lower. Not claiming. Not taking.
Just reminding.
Her breath broke.
A soft sound escaped her before she could stop it, and her fingers curled against the wall like she needed something solid to anchor her.
I let my hand drift lower—slow, controlled—until it rested at her hip, my thumb barely grazing where heat gathered. She stiffened, then shivered, caught between pushing me away and leaning into the contact she refused to name.
“Say it,” I said quietly.
“Say what?”
“Tell me to stop.”
Her lips parted.
"STOP." She moaned.
I stepped closer, closing the last inch of space with my body, my forehead hovering near hers, my breath mixing with hers. I could feel her heart racing through fabric and bone.
“You’re not weak for feeling this,” I said. “You’re angry because you do.”
Anger flashed hot and bright when she looked at me again.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t start this.”
“I can do what I want,” I replied, my breath hot against her ear. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine when you try to fight me.”
Her eyes widened. She tried to turn her head, to escape, but I held her steady, my body pressing hers to the wall. She tried to look anywhere but at me.
I didn’t let her. “Look at me.”
Her eyes flickered to mine, reluctantly, unwillingly.
“That’s right,” I said softly. “You can’t lie to me. Not now.”
I leaned in again, this time pressing my lips to hers, forceful, sharp—but not cruel. She tried to pull away. I let her fight at first. Her lips moved against mine, hesitant, defensive… then finally, she responded. A little. Tentatively.
Her hands slid from my wrists to my chest, her body pressing into me even as her mind screamed to fight. I let them rest there.
I pulled back slightly, resting my forehead against hers. “You can’t pretend this doesn’t matter,” I murmured.
Her lips parted, breath shaky. “I… I don’t—”
“Yes, you do,” I said, voice low and dangerous. “I can feel it. You feel it. And you’re mine. Not just here. Not just now. Every part you try to hide—you can’t.”
She avoided my gaze. I tilted her chin toward mine again. “Look at me,” I demanded. “I knew. I know you want this. You want me.”
Her eyes finally met mine. The fire in them was undeniable. And just like that, I kissed her again—longer this time.
When I finally pulled back, our foreheads still pressed together, our breaths mingling, she gasped softly, shivering. I smiled against her hair.
“Still going to deny it?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer. But the way her body leaned against mine said everything.
The room hummed around us—steel, locks, distant chaos—but all I felt was her breathing finally matching mine, unwillingly steady, like her body had decided before her mind ever would.
- Writer
