His back strained beneath his immaculate suit. His fists never uncurled by his sides as he kept his gaze trained on the door, as if it could somehow be stripped from its hinges and used as a weapon against me.
Neither of us said a word. The silence between us became sharper and more deadly than any knife or blade.
My heart no longer pumped but whirred like a broken apparatus, racing toward its final beat, confused about its purpose. The adrenaline drenching my system told it to race and race until it finally popped from exertion, so at least I would die a quick death. But the poor thing struggled against the sickening palpitations, fighting to find a life-giving rhythm, destining me to Sully’s fury.
I swallowed hard as he finally turned around.
Slowly.
Ever, ever so slowly.
He moved as if a sudden noise or motion would snap his hard-fought control. He acted as if he was afraid of his own wrath, which in turn made me petrified.
I wished I could go back in time and never open my mouth. I wished I’d been strong enough to withstand his taunts and torments. Why had I let him get under my skin so badly? Why had I let loose even while I’d desperately tried to shut myself up?
I blushed all over again, reliving the horror of what I’d snarled. The truth of it was undeniable. The righteousness of it utterly deserved. But I didn’t want to die, no matter how reckless I’d been. I didn’t want to suffer a punishment that would leave me bedbound and unable to find an escape.
Stupid.
So, so stupid, Eleanor.
He stood facing me. His dark hair stayed swept off his face with its bronze-tips glinting like treasure in the strands. His eyes seemed to glow with the depths of the sea. Not just blue—not just aquamarine or turquoise, but a blend of every pigment: sunshine and shadow, depths and shallows, turmoil and debilitating temper.
His jaw worked as he ground his teeth. His powerful throat corded with muscle, and a vein pumped visibly as he continued to hold himself in check.
I’d meant what I’d said that I found him diabolical and vile. But I’d lied when I called him grotesque. Had I called him that, or had I managed to keep that one accusation swallowed?
Either way, he wasn’t grotesque—not in the physical way at least.
He was probably the most stunning man I’d ever get close to in my entire life. His tall height was perfect for my leggy length. His features were symmetrical and masculine. His hands fit my body. His fingers knew how to draw pleasure. His cock was every girl’s wet dream.
Yet…funny how his physical attributes did nothing for me.
His soul was putrid, and because of that, I found him utterly unattractive.
The tense standoff between us lasted for far too long. My knees started to shake, and the power at telling him off quickly faded for jittery nausea. Not that I’d let him see that. Not that I’d back down—not when I was the one to pick this fight.
Finally, he cracked his neck again, forced his hands to spread as if draining a few drops of his temper through his fingertips, then slowly, he came toward me.
Last time, I’d held my ground. I was too foggy with yelling at him and high on my own disregard for my life.
This time, I’d had too long to cool down, and I was far, far too aware of what he could do to me.
He could kill me.
He could honestly, truly kill me, and no one would care.
But that wasn’t the worst he could do.
First, he could do an untold number of things to me until I begged for him to kill me.
He’d proven he had no morals. He’d shown he had no regard for my health.
Shit.
I bolted away.
I scrambled around the huge angular table, hoping to put the large expanse between us, so I could at least debate my life before he stole it.
But…my sudden reaction unleashed him.
The temper he’d been trying to swallow into the pits of his belly snapped, and he launched after me.
His shoes slapped on the sandstone tiles, pushing him into speed.
My bare feet gripped on the floor, but it was no use.
I ran.
He caught me.
In one second flat, he grabbed my hair with one unforgiving fist, marched me toward the table, then folded me forward until my belly and breasts squished against the cool wood, and his rock-hard thighs and cock pressed me into submission.
He shuddered.
I arched up, trying to remove his hold.
The pressure on my nape restrained me. My hair spilled from his hold while the messy strands cascaded over my cheek and onto the table.
He didn’t speak for a second, breathing deliberately, the puff of his hard exhalations tickling my exposed skin.
“You’re new. You’re young. You’re afraid.” His voice sounded as if a decade had gone by. A decade where he’d been drinking saltwater and smoking endlessly. He sounded gruff and rough and entirely slipped from his throne of decorum. “For those reasons alone, I’m doing my best not to ruin you.”