Chapter 27

EZRA

I can still feel the shape of her mouth against mine.

Still taste her.

And even as I walk away from her, following dumbass Creighton, I can feel her gaze on me, probably looking at me like I’m something she doesn’t recognize—and maybe for the first time, I’m seeing myself clearly too.

This isn’t just desire.

This is fixation.

And I know exactly what happens when people like me fixate.

Blood. Lots of it.

It always starts with a small slip. A lapse in control. A kiss that turns into a bite. A fantasy that becomes a need.

It's already started.

And now I want more.

I want to taste that fear in her breath and the heat in her skin. I want her lips bruised from my hunger, her name broken on my tongue. I want everything I shouldn’t. And I know it.

So that time, I lied.

I pretended it was nothing. A performance. A show for the crowd.

I didn’t meet her eyes again—not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t.

Because if I do, I’ll lose control all over again.

And next time, I might not stop.

The round table is already half full by the time I get there. Polished mahogany, crystal water goblets, tailored suits, and sharks in ties pretending to play nice.

I slide into my seat. They’re already talking.

Stocks. Mergers. Projections.

I nod when expected, throw in a comment or two that sounds intelligent, but my mind’s still stuck ten minutes ago—with her breath on my mouth, her blood on my tongue, and the look she'd given me.

Maybe she’s right.

I’ve sat at tables like this more times than I can count. I’ve watched some of these men's fathers age, watched their sons rise. I’ve seen deals inked in ambition and sealed with handshakes colder than grave dirt. None of it impresses me anymore.

It’s noise now.

Meaningless.

Maybe because she’s not here.

And that’s the only thing that matters.

The meeting drags on, voices blending into background noise. I lose track of who’s speaking. Maybe it’s Wexler. Maybe it’s Creighton, trying too hard again. Or fucker Nathan. Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that the moment it ends, I’m on my feet.

First to rise. No hesitation.

I step out before they can corner me into more bullshit pleasantries, my pulse suddenly picking up with every step I take toward the crowd.

And then I see her.

Across the room, like a damn vision I might’ve conjured out of obsession and want. She tips her head back, throat bare, lips parted around the rim of a champagne flute. Pale gold liquid kisses her mouth before disappearing down that elegant line of her neck.

My hands curl into fists.

Because all I can think about is how that should’ve been me.

Not the drink.

Not the glass.

Me.

My tongue on her lips, my teeth at her throat. The sound she made when I sucked her lips hard and bit her still echoes in my ears, soft and surprised and maybe—just maybe—a little turned on.

Fuck.

I want to ruin that mouth.

I want to erase every trace of that drink and replace it with my taste, my mark, until she forgets anything else ever touched her lips but me.

My jaw tightens as I walk toward her.

She drops the flute on the table with a soft clink and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like she’s erasing me.

I clench my jaw so hard it almost snaps.

Then, I clear my throat as I stop beside her table. “It’s time to go home.”

She doesn’t even look at me. Just mutters, “You’re such a dick, Ezra.”

I smirk despite myself. She slurs the words slightly, lips still damp from champagne. 

Cute.

But underneath it—fuck—I don’t like this. The glaze in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks. Her slightly messy hair. The fact that she’s drunk.

Who the hell served her alcohol?

I glance around, murderous thoughts forming toward the waiter who clearly doesn’t know how to follow simple instructions.

She shoves her chair back, staggers to her feet, and grabs her bag with more attitude than coordination. “I’m not going any…where with a dick. I’ll take a…taxi.” she says, waving at me dismissively, eyes unfocused.

I sigh. “Yeah? That’s not happening.”

Before she can stumble away, I scoop her up.

Princess-style.

She shrieks and starts thrashing like a feral cat. “Put me down!”

“No,” I grit out, holding her tighter as I walk out of the hall and into the cool night air. “You’re drunk, and I don’t trust a single soul here with you.”

She punches my chest with her little fist. “Devil!”

“I’ve been called worse,” I mutter.

She keeps hitting me—small fists pounding my chest like they’re made of silk and fury.

I don’t flinch. Don’t stop.

She thrashes in my arms like she wants to fight me off, like she actually could.

She can’t.

But I let her try.

One heel slips off her foot and clangs against the marble. Her fists beat against my chest as she spits venom between slurred words. “Put me down, you demon. You fucking devil.”

I don’t flinch.

I just keep walking—past the doors, past the curious stares, into the cool night air that does nothing to cool the wildfire under my skin.

Her body twists in my hold, but I don’t drop her. Not even when her nails rake over my shoulder.

I can protect her but not from me.

By the time I reach the car, her voice is hoarse and her fight’s turning desperate.

I open the door and pull her onto my lap. Her dress riding up, her scent flooding my lungs, her anger vibrating through every inch of her.

Her hair spills across my chest, and she smells like champagne and chaos. Her fists hit me again. Weak now. Wild. Like she’s trying to hurt me and hold on at the same time.

I catch her wrists mid-swing and murmur against her temple, low and rough, “Go ahead. Hit me.”

She stills.

My grip tightens. “Hit me all you want. If that’s what it takes to drain it out of you—do it. But don’t you ever fucking try to run from me.”

Unless I do.

She shudders, and for a second, I think she’ll break down.

But instead, she yanks her hands free and lands another punch to my chest.

I let it land. Harder this time.

Good.

I want her rage. I want her teeth and claws and every broken piece.

Because maybe if I take her worst, she won’t see mine.

Maybe if I give her a villain to blame, she won’t look too closely and realize I already am one.

She’s still hitting me, tears burning in her voice now. “You… you kissed me like you meant it, Ezra. And then… you said it was just fake.”

I freeze.

Something sharp slices through my chest.

Her voice cracks and it’s enough to gut me. She's crying. Actually crying.

I’ve seen her mad. I’ve seen her ruthless.

But this?

This is the first time I’ve seen her break.

Not when I crossed every line.

Not when they whispered shit behind her back.

Not even when the board tried to bury her.

But now—because of me?

I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat as I take her head between my palms. 

“Thea…” My voice comes out low, uneven.

She swats my hands away and wipes her cheek as she tries to turn away, but I won’t let her. I hold her face, make her look at me.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” I admit. “But don’t cry. Please.”

She hiccups softly, lip trembling, still refusing to meet my eyes.

And God, I’d take a thousand hits to the chest if it means I never have to see that look on her face again.

“I didn’t lie about the kiss,” I whisper.

It’s the only truth I have left.

“I…” 

Fuck. I don't know what to say.

She only breaks down more, tears rolling down her face.

Is she crying because of the kiss or because…

But I don't think about it as I lean closer. 

I just want to make it stop.

So strange.

I take her head between my palm, my tongue peeking out as I catch a drop of tears with my tongue.

I pull her closer to my body, one hand on the back of her neck, the other on her waist as I catch each drop of tears that falls from her eyes and literally licks her face.

Fuck me.

Then, I lean back.

Her sobs are soft hiccups now. Little broken breaths, wet sniffs, the kind of quiet that feels louder than a scream.

She’s staring at me.

Eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

God.

She looks like sin and surrender.

I lean back against the seat, letting the leather cool my spine, grounding myself, because every part of me is on fire. My jaw is clenched so hard it aches. My hands twitch, because they remember how she felt just now—shaking and helpless and wrapped around me.

My cock throbs against the zipper of my slacks, hard and pulsing, already aching for her. Her scent is everywhere—on my hands, on my shirt, in my lungs. Like I’ve already fucked her, fed from her, and I’m still starving.

Her eyes flick to my lips, uncertain but burning. And again.

And then she says it.

"Ezra… Touch me."