Sweet Hatred Chapter 8: Special Treatment

Kael's head barely jerked, his cheek blooming red under the stark imprint of my hand. His breath hitched—not in pain, but sothing darker, sharper. A muscle feathered in his throat as he turned back to , his gaze ravenous.

Gasps echoed around us.

Then—movent.

Three n closed in, Kael's guards, their presence thick with silent intimidation.

I exhaled slowly, shifting my gaze to them. Unimpressed.

"Really?" I drawled, flicking my gaze back to Kael. "Can't fight your own battles now? How pathetic."

Kael's smile unfurled like a predator savoring the chase.

And then, before I could blink, he moved.

Fast.

His hand closed around my wrist, calloused fingers pressing into my pulse point. Not to hurt. To feel. His thumb brushed the tender skin there, a whisper of a touch that sent a traitorous shiver through .

Shock flared in my chest, but I buried it under a sneer. "Afraid I'll run?"

His grip tightened, possessive. "Oh, you'll wish you had."

Kael's smirk was infuriatingly calm, his dark green eyes watching with sothing unreadable. But he didn't pull toward his car. No.

He turned, dragging back inside the building.

Not the club's main floor. Not the place buzzing with music and drunken bodies.

Sowhere else.

Sowhere worse. Probably.

I resisted—obviously. I dug my heels in, jerked my arm, even tried twisting out of his grasp. But Kael? That rogue barely even acknowledged my attempts, his grip unshaken, his steps unwavering. So goddamn strong.

"You fucking twat!" I hissed under my breath. "Let go."

He didn't. Just glanced down at , his eyes glinting with sothing feral. "You started this," he said softly. "We'll finish it."

He continued guiding through the dimly lit corridors of the club, past security, through a door that shouldn't have opened for him so easily.

The second we stepped inside, the air changed.

It wasn't the club anymore. It was a world of luxury.

A VVIP lounge, no doubt. And the mont the door shut behind us, the pulsing music from outside beca nothing but a distant hum.

My chest tightened, the realization settling.

I had slapped Kael Roman. In public. And instead of throwing to his guards, instead of making a scene—he had calmly walked into a place where no one else could interfere.

I inhaled, forcing my pulse to steady, my expression to remain untouched.

"I get it," I drawled, forcing my lips into a smirk despite the unease curling in my stomach. "You need privacy before throwing your little tantrum."

Kael humd, completely unfazed.

God, I detested that.

No anger. No lashing out. Nothing. Just calm, suffocating control.

We passed through the lavish lounge, past velvet couches and glass walls overlooking the city, until finally—we reached a door.

Kael opened it.

And then, without a single warning, he pulled inside. The door clicked shut behind us. And suddenly, it was just us.

Alone.

My throat went dry.

I knew I should have been more careful. But my pride wouldn't let cower.

So, I tilted my chin up, crossing my arms. I laughed, shaky. "You always threaten won in private? Or am I special?"

His gaze dropped to my mouth again, lingering. "Oh, you're sothing," he said, voice roughening. "But not special."

Liar. My hands shot out reaching for the door in a split second but he caught pretty quickly and grabbed my wrists again, pinning both to the door above my head with one painful grip. "Let go you sicko!" I spat but his grip only tightened.

Kael inched closer, his head tilting slightly. And then—he smiled. A slow, unreadable, almost mocking smile. "Your eyes..." he muttered. "they burn so good"

What? What was this asshole talking about? My eyes?

His breath mingled with mine, the air thick with the tang of rage and sothing else—sothing clawing and primal. His free hand slid to my hip, anchoring in place. Not to harm. To claim. The cocky bastard.

I swallowed. "Get. Off."

He leaned in, his lips grazing my ear. "Make ."

Shit.