Water crashed over me. Ice-cold, violent. I sucked in a breath, eyes snapping open, heart slamming against my ribs. I was sitting on the floor of a shower stall, white tiles glaring back at me. My tank top and dark pants clung uncomfortably to my skin. At least I was still dressed.
Small mercies, indeed.
"Good," he bit out harshly. "You're awake."
I barely had time to register his voice before a rough hand closed around my elbow. He hauled me out of the shower like I weighed nothing, water dripping from me in a steady trail, then shoved me down onto the bathroom floor at his feet.
The impact rattled through my skull. Spots danced behind my eyes. I blinked once. Twice. Cold tiles. Harsh lights. The sharp scent of soap and steam.
A bathroom. Not mine. Not somewhere I recognized.
I pushed myself up on shaking arms, breath uneven. My wrists throbbed as the movement pulled at my skin, and that's when I saw them. Deep purple bruises circling both wrists like cruel bracelets I couldn't remove, evidence of how hard I've fought, or how tightly they've held me.
And he just stood there, towering above me. Watching.
"What the fu—"
He yanked my hair back before I could finish, forcing my head up. Pain flared across my scalp, sharp and bright. But those green, ruthless eyes, burning with something between violence and desperation. Yet I met his stare without flinching.
Stupid, maybe. But fear wasn't what crawled through my chest. It was the sickening, inexplicable panic that he might walk away again.
Maybe I have a death wish.
"Where is she?" he hissed, leaning in so close I could feel the heat of his breath. Alcohol. Whiskey, specifically. Perfect. He was furious and drunk. Just my luck.
"I don't know who—"
He jerked my hair harder this time, enough to force a strangled sound out of my throat. "Don't play dumb with me, Ida. Or should I call you Princess instead?"
"Listen," I snapped, my voice cracking from the angle of my neck. "I don't give a shit about your wife! I didn't even know you had a wife! So why the fuck would I looking like her?!"
"Easy," he said, when nothing about him was calm. His grip tightened in my hair, his voice a slow snarl. "You wanted to hit my weakness. That's what you Ricci scum have always been good at."
A bitter laugh clawed its way out of me. "If you love her that much, maybe try harder to find her instead of fucking a 'Ricci scum', then. Don't you think?"
His reaction was instant. Brutal.
He shoved my head down, forcing me toward the tile. My palms slapped the floor just in time, saving my face from cracking against it. Pain shot up my wrists. Rage burned hotter.
I spat at his feet.
It was childish, I know. Stupid. But wildly satisfying.
His breath hitched. Just barely, but it was enough.
In the next second, his hands grabbed both my shoulders, yanking me upright like I weighed nothing and slammed me against the cold wall. The shock rippled through me, stealing my breath, as his body caged me in. Solid and unyielding. Too close. Too warm. It was too much.
"You really shouldn't have done that," he growled, his face inches from mine. His breath was hot, laced with whiskey and fury. "The last time someone spat at me, they no longer have a jaw to speak with."
His thigh pressed between mine. Not sexual, not kind, but controlling. Dominant. Yet my pulse jumped, tripping over itself like it couldn't decide whether to fight him or crave him.
I glared up at him, refusing to flinch. "Go on, then. Break it. Though we both know how much you enjoyed it the last time."
His eyes darkened, something wicked and familiar flickering there. "Careful, princess," he murmured, his fingers sliding from my shoulders to the side of my throat. Not squeezing, just resting. A threat shaped like a caress. "You're exactly the kind of woman who makes a man forget which side he's supposed to be on."
Heat coiled low in my stomach. I hated it. I hated him. And yet...
I couldn't look away.
Neither did he.
For a heartbeat, the air between us pulsed, rage tangling with something far more dangerous. Something that felt like memory. Like recognition. A wildfire waiting for the spark.
His thumb brushed my jaw, rough, almost possessive.
"Do it again," he said softly, like a dare. "See what I do next."
A laugh slipped out of me. Low, breathless, reckless. "Funny," I murmured, tilting my chin just enough to close the distance between us, "I was about to tell you the same thing."
His grip tightened around my throat. Not painful, but just enough to hold me still. Enough to make the room tilt. His breath ghosted over my mouth, warm and furious. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you?"
I swallowed, the movement dragging against his fingers. "Well," I murmured, meeting his stare, "you can't expect me to stay quiet...not with your hand around my throat. Can you?"
Something shifted in his eyes. Heat, confusion and something he didn't want me to see.
Our bodies were too close now. His grip on my neck tightened just enough to tip my head back, forcing my gaze up to meet his. There was nowhere else to look, nowhere else to breathe. There was only him, crowding every inch of space between us. I could feel the tension coiling inside him, sharp and electric. Barely restrained violence...and something else simmering beneath it.
"You think this is a game?" he growled, leaning in until his forehead nearly brushed mine.
"No," I breathed. "But you're the one who can't seem to step away."
HIs jaw flexed once, hard. Something ugly flickering through his eyes, not aimed at me, but at himself. For a heartbeat, he stayed exactly where he was, trapped in that sliver of heat between us like he was daring me to close it. Only then did he snapped.
As if the realization horrified him. His hand tearing away from my throat like he had been burned. "Fuck," he hissed under his breath.
He drove his fist into the wall beside my head. The impact cracking the air and rattled the tiles. A burst of violence so close, I felt the shockwave in my bones. White shards of dust falling over my bare shoulder, sticking on my damp skin.
He didn't even look at me. Not once.
As if meeting my eyes would undo him all over again.
He pushed off the wall and strode toward the door. Cold and furious, running from something he refused to name. Like a coward.
He picked something off the counter once he reached the threshold of the bathroom and tossed a small box to me without turning around. It skidded across the tiles and stopped by my knee, so I picked it up, curious.
It was a box of hair dye. Auburn. My natural hair color.
"Dye it back." His voice came low, rough, almost strained.
Only then did he leave, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. Leaving nothing but the echo of his fist in the wall and the box at my feet. Proof that he knew far more about me than I ever wanted him to.