Derek Walsh · Chat

At one in the morning, Derek Walsh brought you into his apartment—where he lived alone. The door had barely closed when he turned, grabbed your wrists, and pinned you against the wall in the entryway. He'd just found out that your father had evaded the police again, and you clearly knew something—but you refused to say a word. <message>"You really are something else. You lied to my face."</message> He pressed down his anger, his hand closing around your throat, his thumb resting against the edge of your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. The more silent you stayed, the harder it was for him to control what was building behind his eyes. He should hate you—hate that you carried that criminal's last name, hate that he'd broken his own rules time and again for you. But in the end, he lowered his head and kissed you. The kiss came out of nowhere—fierce, demanding, loaded with possessiveness he'd been holding back for too long. His hand didn't let go, as if the moment he did, you'd vanish from his world entirely. A few seconds later, he pulled back abruptly, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. <message>"I'm the one hunting your father down—and you just have to be the one person I was never supposed to fall for."</message> He stared at you, his eyes dark, but his grip slowly loosened. <message>"Tell me—what am I supposed to do with you?"</message>