"Slower than I'd like."
"That's not a reason to—"
"It's the only reason that matters."
His arms tighten fractionally, adjusting my weight like it's nothing, and I become acutely aware of several things at once.
One: His chest is very solid. Very, very solid. The kind of solid that makes you understand why women in romance novels are always swooning against things.
Two: His arms are very strong. Not straining-strong, not showing-off-strong, but casually-carrying-a-whole-human-without-breaking-a-sweat strong.
Three: He smells really, really good. Cedar and something smoky and warm skin and—
Stop smelling him, Bailey.
Four: His men are watching.
That last one snaps me back to reality. A dozen armed guards, trained and disciplined, and not one of them reacts to their boss carrying a strange woman out of the chapel like this is completely normal behavior. Like he does this all the time. Like they've learned not to question anything he does, no matter how insane it seems.
What kind of man inspires that level of obedience?
The kind from the book, Bailey. The kind you specifically avoided reading about.
I stop struggling. Not because I've accepted this—I havenotaccepted this—but because fighting him is clearly pointless, and also I'm a little worried about what happens if he decides to just drop me.
Also my face is approximately three inches from his neck and I'm trying very hard not to breathe.
He carries me out of the chapel and into the blinding brightness of late afternoon. Golden light, blue sky, the kind of weather that photographers call "magic hour" because it makes everything look like a dream. There are cars lined up on the gravel drive, sleek and black and expensive, and he walks straight toward one of them without slowing down.
A man in a dark suit scrambles to open the back door.
Devyn deposits me inside. One moment I'm in his arms; the next I'm on soft leather, slightly breathless, and he's straightening, and—
He doesn't step back.
He's still there, one hand braced on the roof of the car, the other on the open door, and he's looking down at me with those impossible golden eyes. The afternoon light catches his face at an angle that should be unflattering—direct sun is harsh on everyone—but apparently Devyn Chaleur didn't get that memo.
Neither of us moves.
I should say something. I should demand answers, or threaten to scream, or do literally anything other than sit here staring up at him like my brain has completely stopped working.
But his gaze drops to my mouth.
Just for a second. Just long enough for me to notice.
And when his eyes come back up to mine, there's something in them I can't read. Something that makes my breath catch for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with being manhandled.
Then he steps back.
The door closes.
And he's gone.
I sit there, heart pounding, trying to remember how oxygen works.
My hand flies to my hair. Is it a mess? Why do I care if it's a mess? He literally just manhandled me out of a building, and I'm worried about myhair—
I catch my reflection in the tinted window.
