SLOANE
The words hung in the air, the final, brutal blows in a fight that had left us both bloodied and broken. We stood there, the space between us charged with everything we’d said and everything we hadn’t, the wreckage of our argument scattered around us like shrapnel.
And then he moved.
It wasn’t a decision. It was a collision. One second we were a foot apart, the next he was on me—hands fisting in the front of my camisole, slamming me back against the wall with a force that made the picture frames rattle and a dry gasp tear from my throat.
And then his mouth was on mine.
This wasn’t a kiss.
It was a war.
Every vicious word we’d just screamed at each other, every pointed jab, every unspoken resentment—all of it boiled over into this single, violent act. His lips were bruising,
