"Devyn—"
He turns. And the look on his face steals my breath.
Not anger. Not exactly. His eyes have gone dark, his jaw tight, his whole body coiled like he's barely keeping himself from going after Amos right now and doing exactly what he offered to do this morning.
Oh.
Oh my.
This is...I should not find this attractive. This is possessive and probably unhealthy and definitely not something a modern independent woman should encourage.
My pulse is racing anyway.
What is wrong with me?
"He touched," Devyn says, crossing the room in three strides, "what's mine."
He's in front of me now. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body, can see the tension in his jaw, can count the gold flecks in his irises if I wanted to.
I want to.
Stop it, Bailey.
"Possessive," I manage. My voice comes out breathier than I intended.
"Yes." No apology. No explanation. Just fact.
And then he kisses me.
Not gentle. Not patient. This kiss is claiming—his mouth on mine like a brand, his hand sliding into my hair to tilt my head exactly where he wants it. I make a sound against his lips, embarrassing and needy, and he swallows it like it belongs to him too.
Because it does.
Everything I am belongs to him now.
And the terrifying part is that I don't mind.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. His eyes are still dark, still intense, still burning.
"Next time," he says, voice rough, "he doesn't get to sit in the same room as you."
"That might be hard, given he's leading the investigation."
"I don't care."
"Devyn—"
"I don't care." His thumb traces my lower lip. "He looks at you like you're something he wants to take apart. Like you're a problem to be solved. And I don't share."
I remember the wedding. The dinner. His voice in my ear:I don't share.
Some things don't change.
"I don't want him," I say softly. "I don't want anyone except—"
I stop. Feel heat rush to my face.
His eyes sharpen. "Except?"
