Chapter Eleven - Anton

The weight of her gaze is unbearable, but I don't let it show. Not on the outside, anyway. On the inside, though, the need to break her—no, not break her, but strip away the layers she's carefully built around herself—is overwhelming.

I stand in front of her, letting the tension between us simmer. The silence is thick, like a physical thing pressing down on us, but it's not uncomfortable. No, it's exhilarating. It's the silence before the storm. The calm before the chaos.

She's standing there, frozen, as though she's not sure what to do with me. I can see the conflict warring in her eyes—the defiance, the rage, and, underneath all of that, something else. Something raw.

I know what it is. Desire. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate when she looks at me. It's fleeting, but it's there. She won't admit it, of course. Not out loud. But I see it. I feel it in the air, thick as the tension hanging between us.

"Why do you keep doing this?" she asks, her voice clipped and sharp, like a blade cutting through the thick air. But there's an edge to it now. A vulnerability she's desperately trying to hide.

The question makes me smirk. She wants to understand me. She wants me to explain myself, to give her something she can hold on to. But I won't. Not yet.

"Because you can't resist it," I reply, my voice low and dangerous. "You think you can, but you can't. Not when you feel it too."

Her eyes narrow, and I can see the rage building in her. But it's not just rage. There's a flicker of something else. I've seen that look in her eyes before. It's the same look she gets when she's trying to keep control of a situation that's slipping from her grasp.

She's too proud to admit it, too proud to let me see how badly I've got under her skin. But I know. I can feel it.

"You think you have control, don't you?" she says, stepping back, trying to put some distance between us. But her voice cracks just a little, and I can't help but notice. "That you can just push me around and get away with it."

I take a step forward, closing the gap. I want her to feel trapped, to feel that need building in her, the way it's building in me. But I won't let her know how badly I want her. Not yet.

"Control?" I echo, a dark laugh slipping from my lips. "Sweetheart, I'm not the one who needs control here. You're the one who's holding back. You're the one who won't let yourself give in."

I see the way her jaw tightens, how she's trying to mask her emotions. She's holding it all in, trying to convince herself that she's not affected by this, that she doesn't feel the same pull that I do.

But I know her too well. I've seen the way she reacts when I get close, the way her breath hitches when I touch her. She's trying to fight it, but deep down, she's just like me.

I reach out, just barely grazing her arm, but it's enough. She shudders, but it's not in fear. It's in something else. Something deeper.

"Stop pretending, Pricilla," I murmur, my voice rough. "You want this. You want me. And you'll admit it sooner or later."

Her eyes flash with fury, but I see the hesitation in them. She doesn't know how to respond to that. Doesn't know how to handle the truth that I've just laid bare between us.

She steps away, her movements sharp, but there's a tremor in her hands that she doesn't hide fast enough. She's not as unaffected as she wants me to believe.

"I don't need you," she says, but there's a slight quiver in her voice. She's lying, but it's a lie she's desperate to convince herself of.

"No, you don't need me," I say, my voice colder now. "But you want me. And that's something you're never going to be able to ignore, no matter how hard you try."

She clenches her fists at her sides, clearly frustrated, clearly not sure what to do with the way I've got her cornered.

I take a step back, giving her space, but it's not because I want her to get away. No. I know exactly how this works. I'm giving her the illusion of control, but I know that deep down, she's just as hooked as I am.

I want her to feel the tension, to realize how close we are to crossing a line neither of us is willing to admit exists. But it's there. It always has been.

"I'll be here," I say quietly, turning toward the door. "And you'll come to me when you're ready to stop pretending."

I don't look back as I leave, but I can feel her eyes burning into me, feel the weight of her unresolved desire pulling at the edges of my mind. It's only a matter of time.

And when she finally admits it, when she finally lets herself fall, I'll be waiting.

The door clicks softly behind me, but I don't step away immediately. I can still feel the tension lingering in the air, thick and suffocating. Every step I take away from her seems like I'm walking deeper into the abyss, yet I know it's the only way to make her realize what we both want.

I move down the hallway with a calm, collected pace, but my mind is a different story. Thoughts race through my head, none of them clear. I'm angry. Frustrated. I want her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, and the fact that she's trying to act like she doesn't care—like I don't matter—is almost unbearable.

But I know this game. I've played it too many times before, and I know how it ends. She can fight it, all she wants. She can push me away, pretend like I'm nothing more than an obstacle, but deep down, she feels it. That same pull that drags me in like gravity.

And I'll make her admit it.

I can't shake the image of her from my mind—the way her lips parted ever so slightly when I touched her, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, as though she were fighting to keep herself composed. Her eyes, though. That was the most telling part. The way they burned with a hunger she was trying so hard to suppress.

She won't win this. Not against me.

As I walk down the corridor, I hear voices from a few doors down, muffled conversations, footsteps echoing in the distance. None of it matters. The noise fades into the background, irrelevant. What matters is what's happening in that room.

What's happening between us.

I reach the stairs, but my mind is still on her—how she won't look at me the same way again, how she won't be able to deny what's coming. Not once that spark is ignited. It'll be too late by the time she realizes that everything she's fought to protect will be burned away by the intensity of what I bring.

I stop for a moment, at the top of the stairs. My jaw clenches involuntarily as I think of her—of how close I came to pushing her over the edge today. She almost gave in. Almost let herself feel what she's too scared to admit. But not yet. Not today.

When I reach the main floor, I find myself heading for the bar in the far corner of the mansion. It's a refuge, a place where I can clear my head, or at least try to. I order a drink without thinking, the smooth burn of alcohol something to distract me from the gnawing ache in my chest. I can't stop thinking about her.

I take a sip, the liquor soothing, but only temporarily. The heat lingers in my veins, a reminder that I'm not satisfied. Not by far.

The thoughts of her swirl around me, distracting and relentless. Pricilla.

Everything I've ever wanted to say to her—every word I've held back—feels like it's suffocating me. But I know how to play this. I know that when it's time, I'll have her. I'll break through that wall she's built, whether she likes it or not.

But for now, I settle into the quiet. I allow the alcohol to numb the restlessness, just for a moment. I need to stay sharp. Stay in control.

But I can't help but wonder… what will happen when I finally push her too far?

I lean against the bar, the drink in my hand starting to feel like a distant memory as I stare into the amber liquid, my thoughts still wrapped around her. My mind races with possibilities—what if she pushes me away even harder? What if my plan doesn't work, and she finds a way to stay indifferent?

But no. She won't. She can't. Not after everything that's happened. There's something between us, a force that neither of us can ignore, no matter how much she tries to fight it.

I take another sip, my eyes now focusing on the glass as I roll it between my fingers. My pulse quickens with the thought of her—Pricilla. Her defiance, the way she carries herself like a weapon, shielding her emotions from the world.

That's part of the allure. I know she's not as cold as she seems. There's a vulnerability beneath the surface, something raw that she keeps hidden from everyone but me.

I clench my jaw, a growl threatening to escape. The last thing I need right now is more distance between us. I need to get closer.

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up, half-expecting to see one of the others, maybe Luka or someone else from the crew. But it's not. It's her.

Pricilla.

She steps into the room, her presence immediately filling the space like an electric current. She doesn't look at me at first, her gaze lowered, as if trying to avoid acknowledging that I'm even here. She's wearing one of those dark, fitted dresses that somehow look like armor, her hair cascading over her shoulder, so damn perfect that it almost pisses me off.

She pauses near the entrance, her back straight, her posture tense as she surveys the room with a sharpness that I've come to expect from her. But I know. I can feel it. The air between us is thicker now. Heavy with everything we're trying not to say.

I take a deep breath and set my drink down, pushing off the bar and walking toward her, unable to fight the pull any longer.

She glances at me as I approach, her eyes briefly locking with mine, and that moment—just that one fleeting second—sends a rush of heat through me. But then she quickly looks away, as though she's reminding herself of some silent rule she's made. Some invisible line she's afraid to cross.

"Pricilla," I say, my voice low, almost too smooth. It's a deliberate choice, because I need to keep my control, even though every instinct is screaming at me to push harder, to force her to give in.

She doesn't respond right away, her gaze darting around the room like she's searching for an escape. I won't let her find it.

"You should've stayed," I say, my voice soft but deliberate. "We had a good moment, you and I. I'm not sure why you think running away from it is going to change anything."

Her lips twitch, a flicker of annoyance flashing in her eyes. "I didn't run," she snaps, but there's a hesitation in her tone, a shift that tells me she's not as confident as she's trying to be. "I just don't have time for your games, Anton."

I can feel the tension in the air, thick and charged. She's pushing me away again, but I don't mind. It only makes the chase more exciting. More irresistible.

I step closer, letting my presence close the distance between us, and I watch her face, her body language. She's fighting something. I know it.

"You're afraid of this," I murmur, almost too softly for her to hear. But I know she does. I see the subtle way her body stiffens, the way her eyes flash with something—something deeper than contempt.

"I'm not afraid of you," she says, and there's a forced steadiness to her voice that I don't buy. Not for a second.

"No?" I step even closer, my voice dropping lower. "Then what are you afraid of, Pricilla? The truth? That you might actually want this just as much as I do?"

Her jaw clenches, but she doesn't move, doesn't back away. For a brief moment, I think she might, but then she holds her ground.

"You're insane," she says with a bitter laugh. "Nothing about you is worth my time."

But I can see it. In her eyes, the way her breath catches, the subtle way her body leans in, even if she doesn't realize it. She wants me. She hates it. But she wants me.

"You can say that all you want," I say, my voice barely above a whisper now, just for her ears. "But it won't change the truth. We're both already too deep in this. You can't walk away from something like us."

Her eyes flicker to mine, defiance still there, but now it's mixed with something else. Something raw. Something real.

"Don't play these games with me," she warns, but there's no heat in her words now. Just the barest hint of hesitation. And that's when I know. I've gotten to her.

I smile, not because I'm victorious—not yet—but because I see the cracks in her walls. And I'm the one who will break them open.

"You'll thank me later," I say quietly, turning on my heel to walk away, my footsteps slow and deliberate. But I don't look back. I know she's watching me, and I don't need to see her expression to know that I've won this round.

And this is only the beginning.