‘Yes.’ I fire the word mindlessly in a panic, with no faith that it’ll have any effect. I’m virtually a prisoner in his arms. I turn my face in a cowardly tactic to avoid his stare.
‘No, princess,’ he breathes softly.
‘Don’t call me princess,’ I snap, hating how the reminder brings back memories of our verbal tangles.
‘Princess,’ he whispers the word against my ear, dropping to an all-time low. My bloodstream ignites and fizzes.
‘Go.’ My voice is barely there.
But he hears it. ‘Make me.’
I shake my head. I know what he’s doing. He’s going to make me touch him.
‘Put your hands on me and push me out, Eleanor.’
‘Stop it.’
His hand leaves the wall next to my head and he grabs my jaw, forcing my face to his. I fight him with all my might, terrified of the consequences should he win. So I slam my eyes shut when my muscles refuse to man-up and sustain his force.
‘No,’ he breathes, stepping in, pushing his body to mine. Our chests meld, my heart rate rockets. ‘Open your eyes.’
I shake my head in his clench, stubbornly refusing to give him what he wants – what he knows will break me. What I know will break me. He’s clever. He’s also a ruthless bastard with no fucking morals. But I always knew that. Loved it to a certain extent.
His hold of my jaw slides around to my nape and massages firmly, his other hand joining it so my head is captive in his big palms. He tilts, getting my face at the angle he desires, then I feel the tell-tale signs of fire-filled air hitting my lips. He’s moving in. My mind is going into meltdown, shouting and screaming orders at me, rolling them out one after the other in the hopes that I’ll catch one and fulfil it. I can’t. My body is refusing to move and my heart is being reminded of the twisted joy it was filled with each time he infiltrated my defences. I’m fucked.
‘Please.’ He blows the word across my skin and gently rolls his groin into my lower tummy. My eyes flutter open with no instruction, and he releases a long breath of air. It’s a relieved breath. ‘You complete me, Eleanor.’ His stare hits me like a bullet to my forehead, his eyes wide and pleading, sincere and distressed. ‘I fucking despise myself that I’ve done this to you. To us. I was trying to protect you. I need to protect you, and I fucking will, whether you like it and accept it or not.’
I stare at him. Lost. My heart and my head at war. Make me understand. There’s more to understand now than there ever was before. But one thing I do understand without question is the risk of my heart being destroyed at the hands of this man is now greater.
No, not greater.
Inevitable. Head over heart, Eleanor!
I take my hands around to the back of my neck and rest them over his. I don’t need to force them away. Becker flexes under my touch and gradually lifts them. My fingers weave through his, playing fleetingly, feeling them and stroking, before I take a gentle hold and bring them between our bodies, forcing him to break the connection of our chests. The whole time, our eyes are glued, a silent message passing between them. Me telling him that I’m through. And him accepting he’s lost.
‘You made me feel so alive,’ I want him to walk away from me knowing what he’s done. But more than that, I want him to walk away knowing that I can and I will move on.
Becker squeezes my hand lightly and brings his face to mine, nuzzling into my cheek. He’s searching for reassurance that I can’t give him. I take a deep breath and call on my newfound fire and spirit. The fire and spirit Becker Hunt discovered. ‘I will find passion and devotion in my future again. But you will never find loyalty and acceptance.’
He winces, standing before me with his head dropped and hands hanging lifelessly by his sides. Seeing him struggle to face his wrongs, seeing him hurting, facing the truth, offers me comfort in my desolation. ‘You pulled me in and pushed me away, pulled me in and pushed—’
‘I pushed you away because I knew being involved with you would put you at risk!’ He snaps to life, gulping down air as he swings away from me, stalking over to the window and slamming his palms onto the ledge. His back is heaving violently, rising and falling in extended, strained motions. ‘I felt something stir inside of me each time I saw you – the taxi, at Parsonson’s, the cafe. But the second I laid eyes on you in my grand hall, when I was staring down from my apartment, I knew what I had to do.’