THE WILD CAT

Chapter 28

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind Armani with a finality that echoed through the stone walls of the old estate. The lock clicked—twice, the deadbolt and then the chain—and Riley was alone in the room that had once been her prison, now dressed up like a gilded cage. Velvet drapes the color of dried blood. A four-poster bed that looked too large for one person. A single lamp burning low on the nightstand, throwing long shadows across the Persian rug.

She stood in the center of the floor, still wearing the torn coffee-shop apron over her jeans, arms wrapped tight around her middle as if she could hold herself together that way. Her breathing came shallow and fast. She could still smell gunpowder on her skin, could still hear the wet scream of the woman Armani had shot in the leg.

The door opened again less than five minutes later.

Armani stepped inside without knocking. He had shed the black coat; now he wore only a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the top two buttons undone. His hair was mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it repeatedly during the drive. The gun was gone—holstered somewhere she couldn’t see—but the danger hadn’t left him. It lived in the set of his jaw, the glitter in his eyes.

He closed the door. Locked it again.

Riley took one step back.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. One word. Sharp enough to stop her.

He crossed the room in slow, deliberate strides, stopping just out of arm’s reach. Close enough that she could smell the faint mint on his breath, the leather of his belt, the gun oil that never quite washed away.

“Why?” he asked.

Riley stared at the floorboards. “Why what?”

“Why did you run?” His voice cracked on the last word—not with anger, but with something rawer. “Why did you leave without a word? Do you have any idea what it was like? Thinking the warehouse had taken you. Thinking we’d lost you in fire and rubble. I didn’t sleep for weeks, Riley. None of us did.”

She lifted her eyes then. Met his. “Good.”

The word hung between them like smoke.

Armani blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he laughed.

It started low, almost a chuckle, and built until it was something jagged and unhinged. He threw his head back, the sound bouncing off the high ceiling, and when he looked at her again his eyes were bright—too bright.

“You hate me,” he said, still smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes anymore. “You really, truly hate me.”

“Yes.” Her voice was steady now. Cold. “I hate you. I hate all three of you. I hate the way you look at me like I’m something you own. I hate the way you touch me like it’s a favor. I hate that you think worry makes up for chains and knives and nights I couldn’t scream because you gagged me. I hate you so much it feels like breathing fire.”

Armani’s smile faded slowly, like a candle snuffed out.

He stepped closer.

She didn’t retreat this time. She lifted her chin instead.

He reached out, slow enough that she could have dodged. His knuckles grazed her jaw—gentle, almost reverent—then slid down to curl around the side of her neck. Not choking. Just holding. His thumb rested over her racing pulse.

“I don’t care,” he whispered.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t asking.

His mouth crashed against hers with months of pent-up hunger, teeth and tongue and desperation. One hand fisted in her hair, angling her head exactly where he wanted it; the other banded around her waist, hauling her flush against him until there was no space left for breath or protest.

Riley shoved at his chest—hard. Her palms slapped against muscle and heat. She twisted, tried to turn her face away. He followed, relentless, swallowing her muffled curse.

He broke the kiss just long enough to speak against her lips.

“Don’t be shy, kitten.” His voice was rough, wrecked. “We’ve done this before. Remember? You used to claw at my back until I bled. You used to beg—quiet little sounds you thought I didn’t hear. You came so hard you shook. Don’t pretend you forgot.”

Heat flooded her face—shame and fury and something darker she refused to name.

She shoved again. Harder.

He didn’t budge.

“I want to do it again,” he said.

Before she could answer, he pushed her backward.

Her calves hit the edge of the mattress. She fell—half stumbling, half dragged—onto the bed. The comforter was soft, too soft, swallowing her weight. Armani followed her down in one fluid motion, knee braced between her thighs, hands pinning her wrists above her head against the pillows.

She bucked. Arched. Tried to knee him.

He caught her leg with his own, pinning it wide. Leaned his full weight down until she couldn’t move.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She turned her face away.

He caught her chin. Forced her eyes back to his.

“You can hate me,” he said, voice low and ragged. “You can curse me. You can wish me dead every second you’re breathing. But your body remembers, Riley. It remembers exactly how good it felt when I was inside you. When I made you forget your own name.”

He rocked his hips once—slow, deliberate—letting her feel how hard he was through denim and cotton.

She sucked in a sharp breath despite herself.

“There it is,” he murmured. “There’s my wild cat.”

He released one of her wrists only to drag his hand down her body—over her collarbone, between her breasts, across her stomach. Fingers curled under the hem of her shirt and shoved it up, exposing skin to cool air. His palm flattened against her bare stomach, possessive, burning.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. Almost a dare. “Say the word and I’ll walk out that door right now.”

Silence stretched.

Her chest rose and fell too fast.

She didn’t speak.

Armani’s mouth curved—slow, dangerous, triumphant.

He dipped his head and bit the side of her neck—not hard enough to break skin, just enough to mark. She gasped, hips jerking involuntarily. He laughed against her throat, low and dark.

“That’s what I thought.”

His free hand worked the button of her jeans open. The zipper rasped down. Cool air kissed the newly bared skin of her hips. He didn’t rush—took his time dragging the denim down her thighs, taking her underwear with it, leaving her exposed beneath him.

She closed her eyes.

“Look at me,” he said again.

She didn’t.

He caught her chin. Waited.

When she finally opened her eyes, his were black with want.

He slid one hand between her legs—slow, testing. Found her already slick. A low growl rumbled in his chest.

“f**k,” he breathed. “You hate me so much you’re dripping for me.”

She turned her face into the pillow, mortified, furious, aching.

He didn’t let her hide.

He worked her with ruthless patience—two fingers curling inside, thumb circling her c**t in tight, relentless strokes—until her thighs trembled and her hips lifted into his hand despite every oath she’d sworn.

When she was panting, when her nails were digging crescents into his forearms, he withdrew.

She made a broken sound—anger, need, denial.

Armani stripped his shirt off in one motion. Belt buckle clinked. Jeans shoved down just enough.

He settled between her thighs again, notched himself at her entrance.

“Look at me,” he said one last time.

She did.

He pushed inside in one long, unrelenting thrust.

Her back bowed. A cry tore from her throat—half pain, half something else.

He stilled for a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to hers.

“You’re mine,” he rasped. “You always were.”

Then he moved.

Hard. Deep. Unforgiving.

The bed creaked beneath them. Skin slapped against skin. Her hands—finally free—clawed at his shoulders, drawing blood. He hissed, f****d her harder for it.

She hated him.

She hated herself more.

Because when the coil inside her snapped—when pleasure ripped through her like a blade and she came with his name on her lips—she shattered so completely she almost believed the hate had never been real.

Almost.

Armani followed her over the edge with a guttural groan, spilling inside her, hips grinding against hers until there was nothing left to give.

He collapsed on top of her—sweaty, breathing hard, still buried deep.

For a long moment neither of them moved.

Then he lifted his head. Brushed sweat-damp hair from her temple.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

She stared at the ceiling, tears leaking silently into her hair.

“I hate you,” she said.

But her voice broke on the words.

“Wrong words” he blurted out