“How do you know what I’ll like?” Her voice had gone husky.
He was too controlled, even then. There was a wall between them, one that she was determined to break. Skye wanted it to shatter, just like the mirrors around her could shatter.
One hard punch—shatter.
“I know who you want me to be.” The words seemed torn from Trace. “Let me be that man.”
“I want you.” Good and bad and everything in between.
In her darkest moment, he’d been there for her.
Couldn’t he see that she wanted to be there for him?
“You have me,” Trace said. “Always.”
Then he moved, lightning fast. He spun them around, switching their positions so that she was the one penned against the cold pane of the mirror. And his mouth was on hers, crushing down.
Not with careful restraint. Not with studied passion. But with wild, driving lust. His mouth was hard. His kiss demanding. His tongue thrust into her mouth and took.
He wasn’t treating her like a delicate china doll—the way he’d been treating her since the attack. Wasn’t holding her carefully.
The fire was there, exploding between them. The fire that she needed and wanted so badly.
She’d been cold, until then.
Lost, until then.
He lifted her up, holding her easily and pressing her back even harder against the mirror’s surface. His tongue thrust into her mouth again. His arms and scent and body surrounded her.
She wanted him naked.
Wanted to take and take until they were both lost.
Wanted everything—
Then she heard it. The shattering of glass.
One hard punch—shatter.
Her eyes flew open even as Trace jerked her away from the mirror.
“Fuck! Skye!”
The mirror had shattered behind her. No, not behind her, but beneath Trace’s hand.
He’d hit the mirror? She hadn’t even realized—
His hands were running all over her now. “Where are you hurt?” A feverish intensity thickened the words. “I see the blood. Tell me where, baby, tell me-”
Skye caught his hands. “It’s not my blood. It’s yours.” She turned over his right hand, showing him the knuckles and the red slashes courtesy of the broken mirror.
He stilled. Stared down at the blood.
Skye licked her lips, and she tasted him. “They’re just scratches. We’ll go wash the blood off and get you cleaned up.” She tried to tug him toward the bathroom.
Trace didn’t move.
“I want you so much.”
His deep, growling words made her heart jump.
“Sometimes, I can’t control myself. I’m strong—too rough for you. If I’m not careful, I’ll break you, the same way I broke the mirror.”
Skye shook her head. “No!”
But he wasn’t listening. Trace had pulled away from her.
“I wanted you,” he said, but he wasn’t looking her in the eyes. “And I was about to take you. I was so rough I broke the damn mirror.” He stormed away.
She stood there, staring after him, aching.
He’s leaving.
“You broke the mirror, but you didn’t break me!” Skye called.
Trace stilled.
Okay. She sucked in a couple of deep breaths. “I’m not a mirror or a doll or anything—I’m a woman.” Your woman. “But you keep seeing me as a victim, and it has to stop.” The words were pulled from deep within her.
And they were true.
She was trying to heal.
He was still seeing her as the broken woman that he’d carried from the basement.
Shaking his head, Trace looked back at her. “That’s not true.”
Wasn’t it? “Then lose control with me. Stop holding it so tightly.” She stepped forward and the broken mirror crunched beneath her feet. Screw the mirror. “I don’t want the fancy tycoon. I don’t want the suave gentleman.” She’d seen him play those roles too easily. “I want the man beneath the mask you wear.”
A muscle flexed in Trace’s jaw. “Be careful what you wish for, baby.”
Another step. The mirror crunched again and—
He had her in his arms. “The mirror could cut through your shoes. You could get hurt.”
He was always protecting her.
Even from himself.
He put her down a few feet away. “I’ll send a crew over for repairs.”
She looked over at the mess. His blood had dripped onto some of the broken shards.
“Skye…”
She tilted her head back to study him.
“I know you’re not a f**king victim. I know…” He put his forehead to hers. “That you’re mine.”
***
Alex Griffin eased into his car. His gaze locked on the old fire station just across the street. Skye’s studio.
Reese Stokes stood outside, a guard who was watching Alex with an avid stare.
There was no sign of Skye or Weston.
Alex’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
Trace Weston was a very dangerous man. He was also a man used to being in total control—both of himself and of those around him.
When Weston had said that he had an alibi, that he’d been with Skye, those words had rolled so easily from the man’s mouth. His expression had been set. Seemingly open.
But Skye…her eyes had widened. A small movement, but one that Alex had caught because he’d been watching her so closely.
When it came to lying, Skye wasn’t as good as her lover.
In Alex’s experience, there was only one reason a man lied about an alibi.
Because the man was guilty as sin.
His gut had told him that Trace Weston was a threat, right from the very first moment that they’d met.
But Weston had saved Skye so he’d thought…
Screw what I thought.
He was going to keep following this case. He’d see where the evidence took him. And if he found out that Trace Weston was responsible for Ben Sharpe’s death, he would take the man down.
He didn’t care how much money Weston had.
Justice came to everyone, and the guilty—they paid.
Chapter Four
Trace stared down at the bandage on his right hand. Skye had insisted on bandaging him up. Hell, he guessed it was a good thing that he’d told his men to stock a first aid kit at the dance studio.
She’d carefully applied the bandages, her fingers so soft against his hand.
No one else had ever cared about him, not the way that Skye did. Hell, his mother had spent more time inside a bottle than out in the real world with him.