Daggermouth

A moan tore from her lungs as her treacherous mind supplied different images and she bit down on her fist to stifle the sound. Greyson’s mouth on hers, tasting like expensive whiskey and cruelty. Those hands that killed with no remorse learning her body with the same deadly focus. The way he might say her name—not with Jameson’s warmth, but with a lethal edge that fed into his control.

She thought of his hand around her throat. Not the violence of it, but the restraint. The way he could have crushed her windpipe but didn’t. The control that must have taken.

What would it be like if he lost that control? If she made him lose it?

He needed her out of his fucking apartment.

His bedroom door stood at the end of the hall, promising solitude. Sanctuary. He quickened his pace, desperate to put as many doors and walls between them as possible, as a sound froze him in place in front of her door.

She wasn’t—she wouldn’t.

He stood motionless, ears straining. He had imagined it, his mind playing tricks on him. But there it was again. A moan, louder this time, accompanied by the soft rustle of sheets.

Heat flooded his body, pooling low in his stomach. He was already half hard from their interaction, his self-control frayed to a thread. The image of her in that oversized shirt, his shirt, long, tattooed legs bare and tempting, flashed through his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sound. This was insanity. She was a fucking Daggermouth. He should be plotting her death, not imagining what she looked like tangled in his sheets.

Another moan drifted through the door, breathier than the last, and his control snapped.

Before he could second guess himself, Greyson had his hand on the doorknob. It turned easily—unlocked. One push and he could see her. See what was making her make those sounds. See if her face flushed with pleasure the way it did with rage.

He rested his forehead against the wood, his breath coming harsh and fast. This was a line he couldn’t uncross. A boundary he couldn’t return from. If he opened this door, if he saw her like that . . .

His hand tightened on the knob, knuckles going white. Every muscle in his body begged him to push forward, to find out if she fucked as brutally as she fought.

Greyson wrenched himself away from her door. He couldn’t and there was no world where she would even want him to. Where she would want him. He covered the remaining distance to his room in three strides and closed the door behind him, sliding the lock home with a shaking hand.

He pressed his back against it, head thumping against the wood as he tried to steady his breathing. This couldn’t happen. He couldn’t let himself feel this—this sick mix of lust and loathing for a woman who wanted him dead.

For a woman he wanted dead.

Greyson dragged a hand down his face, feeling the rasp of stubble against his palm. A second night hiding in his own home.