“You can try to fight me, little warrior.” His voice is low, rough velvet, dragging over my skin like a promise. “I know that’s what you do. What you’ve always done.” His other hand traces my collarbones, trailing lower, his fingertips skimming my bare skin. “Always carrying everything. Always in control. Always making the decisions. Always settling, melding yourself into what other people expect of you instead of fighting for what you deserve.”
