He finally turns his head and looks at me. The asshole really is too pretty for his own good. Even bruised all to hell from our fight, he gives the impression of being fucking flawless. It’s irritating in the extreme. He gives a slow smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know we both prefer the hard way. It’s a wonder we never crossed that line before.”
It doesn’t take much to make the conversational leap with him. Even after all the time apart, I still know exactly how his mind works. “We were friends first. Friends aren’t so common in this faction that I was willing to let fucking you get in the way of it.” I pause. “But then, it didn’t matter, did it? My father still died, choking on his own blood, and our people still burned in the house your people set aflame.”
“I know you won’t believe me, but I had nothing to do with the fire.”
“True or not, you sure as fuck benefited from their deaths.” I don’t move from the door, concentrating on holding my tension internally. “Harlow has decided to play nice in order to protect your faction’s people. Will you do the same?”
“Would it matter?” He finally sits up, his ab muscles flexing with the movement.
Fuck, I want to take a bite out of him, and I resent the hell out of my attraction. I’d never let it muddy the waters of my plan, but it’s inconvenient in the extreme. “It might.”
He sits cross-legged on the bed, appearing to give me his full attention. “What does playing nice look like, Abel? Standing next to you while you go through the motions of leading, despite the fact that the people don’t want you here? Does it mean fucking you? Playing Bride in truth? Explain it to me.”
That’s about enough of that. I stalk toward him, stopping next to the bed and planting my hands on the mattress so we’re eye to eye. “You’ll stand next to me and offer your silent support because if your people riot, they’ll be the ones to pay the price. They might outnumber my people, but my people have been in exile for damn near a decade. We’re harder, more ruthless, willing to do absolutely anything to ensure we keep the home we’ve claimed. This isn’t a fight you can win, and I know you’re smart enough to realize that. The only thing still up in the air is whether or not you’re willing to sink the entire faction in response to your bruised pride.”
“You took everything from me in the course of a few hours. I hardly call that bruised pride.”
I ignore that. “As for fucking… You can pretend that you’re only asking out of spite, but we both know how hard your cock was when you were sucking me off. Our friendship might have burned right along with my childhood home that night, but the attraction remains. You want to do something about it?”
He inhales sharply. “Just like that?”
It will never be just like that, but I haven’t survived this long by ignoring hard truths. There’s more than a little lust for Eli simmering beneath my skin. I can hate him and want him at the same time. I’m complicated like that. “You know me, Eli. I see something I want, I take it. I want to cut you into little pieces and throw you into the river. That’s not an option, so I’ll settle for la petite mort.”
“La petite mort.” He gives a choked laugh. “Really? Since when did you ascribe to the French way of thinking about orgasms?”
“Since now.” I drop my gaze to his mouth, letting him see a hint of the lust surging through me. “Up to you how you want to play this. I’m more than happy to hogtie you and keep you in this room for the next year. I don’t need you for any of this shit.” I lean back and make a show of looking around. “I do that, I might not have to kill you myself. You’re liable to die of boredom. Your choice.”
Eli looks at me for a long moment. When he smiles, alarm bells ring through my head. “With that kind of pitch, how can I resist? I’ll play Bride, Abel. Shall we start by my getting on my knees and asking nicely to suck your cock?”
15
Eli
If Abel were any other man, he’d back off and I’d win this particular exchange. But he’s not any other man. We’re playing a game of chicken, and we have too much history and too much stubborn pride between us to veer off into safer territory.
Too much pent-up lust. Can’t forget about that.
So, instead of changing the subject or leaving the room, Abel reaches for the front of his pants, a mocking expression on his handsome face. I hate how good he looks. He’s bigger than he was eight years ago, thick muscle roping his form, giving his shoulders extra breadth, his chest more definition through the thin T-shirt he has on. There are new scars, too. On his knuckles, and a faint one at his throat that his beard almost hides, as if someone tried to garrote him. Most notably is the difference in his eyes.