Page 31 of Irrevocably

He likes this, I realise suddenly. He likes holding me like this, kissing me like this. He might be colder than ice, but right now he feels anything but.

He wants me.

“I warned you not to play little games,” he says. “You might not like the consequences.”

This time it’s my turn to press my fingers against his skin. It’s kind of pathetic because my hand is small and I’m not as strong as he is, but again there’s a flare of reaction in his eyes as I do it. He’s not immune, oh no, he’s not.

The discovery is a head rush, filling me with a sense of power, and it’s intoxicating. This icy, controlled killer wants me, and it’s making me feel reckless, like I’m back on that rollercoaster again. But this time I don’t care if I get thrown. Everything’s falling apart around me so why not be part of the chaos?

“What consequences?” I demand breathlessly. “You might choke me? Oh, wait.”

One side of his mouth twists. “There are worse things than a little light choking.”

“Pain, maybe?” I give him a fierce smile to match his own. “Cut pieces off me, then, see if I care. I like pain, if you hadn’t already guessed.”

He makes a savage sound in the back of his throat, his gaze dropping once again to my mouth, before looking back up again. “I can do that. I can also fuck you up against this door first, then tell the chief I desecrated his virgin daughter as I cut off your fingers one by one.”

The recklessness inside me is building, along with a wild heat that’s making me feel drunk, because something inside me is whispering that, yes, he could fuck me up against this door. He’d do it hard, too, and it perhaps it would hurt, and the pain would be so good. Much better than a knife.

“Joke’s on you,” I say huskily. “I’m not a virgin.”

“I see.” He strokes the side of my neck with his thumb. “So, you’ve been fucked before, then, have you?”

Beneath the masculine spice of his scent, I can smell rain and a damp earthiness that makes me think of dark forests and wild things, creatures untamed and deadly. He is one of those creatures, sleek and predatory and beautiful. Designed to attract, then once you’ve fallen into his trap, he’ll kill you.

He’s so close, and I have to put my head back far to look up at him. It’s strange to look a psychopath full in the face and feel like you might die if he doesn’t kiss you again.

“Of course I have,” I lie, my voice hoarse. “I’ve been fucked hundreds of times.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, using sex to distract me. But I’ll take it. And afterwards, I’ll still make you give me the information I need.”

I’m sure he will. But I’m drunk on my own power now, and I don’t want to stop. For so long, I’ve been driven by the need to be good, to do well, to make my father regret my mother’s death less somehow. To make myself matter to people. But Lucien doesn’t care how good I am or how well I’m doing. I don’t matter to him, and somehow that feels liberating. I don’t have to be someone I’m not with him. I don’t have to keep that façade in place. I can be whoever I want, and it won’t make any difference to him.

“You can certainly try,” I say.

Unexpectedly, he laughs, a soft rumble that strokes down my spine, making me shiver all over, then he shifts, pulling out of my grip. Keeping his own fingers wrapped firmly around my throat, he leans down, draws the knife from his boot and straightens.

If I was a normal girl, I’d be terrified, but I’m not a normal girl. I’m fucked up, and the knife doesn’t scare me. No, I love knives, don’t I?

“Did you cut yourself tonight, Astrid?” Lucien asks, his voice a dark purr.

“No.” I watch him as he lifts the blade.

“Did you want to?”

“Yes.”

He looks at me like he can see into my head, see all the dark places in my soul. See the part of me that’s afraid I’ll never be good enough to make my mother’s sacrifice worth it.

“Why is that?” He shifts his hold on my throat and runs the tip of the knife down to the first button of my pyjama top. “What makes a good little girl like you put a blade against her own skin?”

I’ve never told anyone about my little cutting secret. Not a single person. Yet this complete stranger is asking me questions and all I want to do is answer him. It won’t matter if he knows. It won’t matter at all.

“I got a B plus instead of an A,” I say, the words pouring out of me. “And I can’t get a B plus, not if I want to get into med school. So, I had to redo the assignment, and I don’t have time. I don’t have time for any of this.”

His gaze pins me to the door, the knife flicking as he cuts off the first button of my pyjama top. I tremble as the fabric parts, goosebumps prickling everywhere.

“A high achiever, hmm?” He trails the tip of the knife over my skin, cold and sharp, down to the next button. “You’ve got something to prove?”