There is something wrong with the way Scar and I fight.
Perhaps wrong is not the word.
Perhaps dangerous is closer.
When we clash, there is never anything gentle about it. We come together like flint against steel, all teeth and fury and pride. I have tasted blood from split lips and felt the sting of his grip around my wrists and throat when he finally manages to put me beneath him. I have clawed at his shoulders, shoved him back, cursed him in every language I know, and sworn that one day I will be the one standing over him.
He only smiles.
That damnable smile.
As though he already knows how the fight will end.
And sometimes I think he does.
Because there is a moment—always a moment—when the anger changes. The air between us becomes thick enough to choke on. His eyes darken. Mine must do the same, because suddenly neither of us is thinking about winning anymore.
We are thinking about each other.
That is when I should run.
Instead, I stay.
I have spent my entire life learning how to recognize danger. The forest taught me. Hunger taught me. Predators taught me. I know the sound of something stalking me through darkness. I know the difference between fear and instinct.
Scar is both.
He claimed me as his Mate, yet made certain I understood that within our home, his word is law. I fought him over that. Of course I did. I am Melete. I would sooner bite through leather than willingly surrender the right to decide my own path.
And yet…
Somewhere along the way, his certainty became something I stopped fighting.
Not because he broke me.
Because I began to understand him.
He does not ask me to become weak. He expects me to become sharper. Stronger. More disciplined. More woman than I ever imagined I could be while still remaining the wild creature I have always been.
And perhaps that is why I cannot hate the way he commands me. Perhaps that is why his voice can still send a shiver through me when every sensible part of me wants to bare my teeth.
He knows.
I know he knows.
That is the worst of it.
Scar delights in tormenting me. He will catch me watching him and hold my gaze just a heartbeat too long. He will say something low and wicked merely to watch my temper flare. Sometimes he touches me with maddening restraint, as though he knows exactly how close to the edge he can bring me before I lose patience and control.
He enjoys it.
The bastard enjoys every second.
And I have finally admitted something I would rather swallow a handful of ash than say aloud to him.
So do I.
I like the torment.
I like the challenge.
I like the dangerous space between wanting to fight him and wanting to close the distance between us until neither of us remembers what we were angry about.
I like the way he looks at me afterward, as though he has discovered another secret beneath my skin.
But I will not give him all of my secrets.
Not yet; A panther does not reveal every place she hides.
And if Scar thinks claiming me means he has conquered me, he has another think coming; Because I am beginning to understand something about my Mate.
He may be the one teaching me how to surrender, but I am still learning exactly how much power there is in choosing when to do it.
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