I bit him, hard, tasting blood instantly. His breath hitched, but he didn’t release me. If anything, his grip became even more possessive, his free hand slipping beneath my robe.
My breath caught. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Panic flared inside me, and I struggled harder, pushing at his chest. “Benedict, get out!” I spat.
But he didn’t move, his fingers trailing my skin with infuriating ease. “You need me too, don’t you?” His voice was low, coaxing, as if I had any reason to desire him.
A tremor of rage passed through me. “I hate you,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
That made him stop. Benedict went still; his gaze locked onto mine. Something flickered in his eyes—something like hesitation.
Then, without another word, he released me and stalked toward the door. The slam echoed through the room, shaking the walls. I clutched the robe tightly around myself, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. My hands trembled.
For the next few days, Benedict didn’t return to the packhouse.
I tried calling him. Not because I wanted him back—Goddess, no—but because I needed to make him sign the rejection papers. He ignored every attempt.