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“You’re…” He exhales, a quiet curse slipping under his breath, more to himself than to me. “Fuck.”

A beat passes. Then another.

His gaze lifts to mine, sharper now, searching, as if he’s trying to see past the teasing, past the game.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice lower, rougher—not seductive this time, but edged with restraint.

I tip my head, watching him, reading him.

This isn’t control.

This is conflict.

“I am here,” I reply softly.

His hand finally reaches my wrist, closing around it, but not pulling, just holding, grounding himself as much as me.

“No,” he mutters, almost under his breath, shaking his head once like he’s trying to clear it. “No, this changes things.”

There it is. The line.

The boundary he didn’t expect to hit. His thumb brushes absently over my pulse, feeling how fast it’s racing. Or maybe checking if it matches his.

His eyes close for a brief second, tension pulling tight across his features, and when he opens them again, the decision is there—forced, final.

“We can’t do this.”

The words fall between us, heavy, brutal.

For a breath, something twists low in my chest, something close to disappointment.

Then I step closer. Not away. Closer.

My free hand lifts, fingers brushing faintly over his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint, the control he’s gripping onto like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“This is my decision, not yours,” I tell him, my voice quiet but firm. No teasing now. No game. Just truth.

His jaw tightens under my touch.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he shoots back immediately.

I hold his gaze, not backing down.

“I do.”

His grip on my wrist tenses, then loosens, then tenses again, like he’s caught between pulling me into him and pushing away.

Control. Impulse. War.

And for the first time, I’m not sure which one is going to win.

I need to do something. Now.

SEVENTEEN

Thalia

I take a small step back, my calves brushing the edge of his bed, and I hold his gaze, refusing to look away while slowly sink onto the mattress. The soft fabric dips beneath me, molding around my body as I part my legs gently—an invitation wrapped in mockery.