“Oh, sweetheart...”
He backed her against the wall, peeling off the scarf and the jacket with his mouth fused on hers–the knocks on the door barely registering despite growing insistent.
Until a heap of power jerked him away from her and slammed him on the other side of the hall.
“What in the actual hell?” she gasped.
He raised his index finger, asking her for a second to brace for what came next. Because there were very few beings able to pull off what had just happened. He looked at her and sighed. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“Whatever is about to happen.”
And he went to open the front door, not surprised to find Dorian and Amelia on the other side. “See how it works?” Dorian asked. Amelia’s hand was safe in the crook of his arm, his hand covering hers. “There’s a closed door, and I knock on it. And if you don’t open it, then I keep on knocking. It’s civilized behaviour, Hunter.”
“You shoved me into the other side of the hall.”
“That’s because you locked your mind first, then refused to open the bloody door. I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?”
Daphne tapped his back from behind. When he turned, her face was not amused. “AmIgoing to see who’s atmydoor?”
Between a rock and a hard place, Hunter mused. Literally.
He raised his palms in quick surrender and moved aside. He had a gut feeling he was going to be in enough trouble soon enough.
~*~
“Can I help you?” Daphne asked the insanely good-looking man standing at her door. He gave tall, dark, and dangerous an entire new meaning. Hair as black as a moonless night, perfectly coiffed. Eyes the same cold blue of a glacier. Danger followed him like a shadow, the only soft thing about him the lovely woman at his side.
A woman who looked like she’d run out of patience with her man ten minutes ago, but the smile she gave her was genuine. She had sweet eyes and hair pulled back in a tight bun that made her look serious, but in a utilitarian, no-nonsense kind of way, not stuck-up.
“Good evening, love. You must be Daphne,” the man said with an accent that came straight from Buckingham Palace.
“And you are?”
“Dorian,” he replied, as if that explainedeverything.“And this is my wife, Amelia.”
Ah. So this was the infamous Dorian–Hunter’s boss-slash-brother–slash–whatever. “Come in,” she said, stepping aside.
They moved down the short hallway and into the living room. Amelia nodded once, brisk and cordial, stepping in like she already knew where the living room was. Dorian gave her a wink on the way past.
Hunter stood as they entered, giving Amelia a quick, warm hug before aiming a look at Dorian that said,Behave.
“Hunter told me about you,” Daphne said, gesturing to the couch. “Please, have a seat.”
Dorian lounged with aristocratic flair, one ankle resting on a knee like he was posing for a decadent oil painting. Amelia sat beside him, all precise lines and practical grace. Hunter reclaimed the armchair opposite, already watching Daphne with that faint furrow in his brow he got when he was low-key worried.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Daphne asked.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Dorian said with a regal tip of his head.
Daphne nodded, heading to the kitchen.
This plot twist was so odd.
And it only got odder when, halfway through filling the kettle, she heard footsteps behind her.
Amelia.
