He watched me walk toward the bedroom, quiet and conflicted. His breath was heavy and uneven. I didn't turn back, but I could feel his stare follow me, like a man trying to decide if the thing he desired most might also be the thing that ruins him.
He looked at me like a man who'd kissed a rose and just found the thorns. The room was quiet now, too quiet. The smoke had faded, leaving only the smell of gunpowder and broken glass. Mikhail's men were gone, but his anger hadn't left with them.
He turned from the window, slow and dangerous, and his eyes locked on me. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked, his voice low but sharp.
I was brushing tiny pieces of glass from my hair. "You ask that as if it offends you."
"It does."
I looked at him, smirking. "You're not the only one who knows how to handle a weapon."
He stepped closer, his boots crunching over glass. "You had that gun hidden all along?"
"Yes."
His jaw tightened. "For how long?"
"Since the first night," I said simply.
His eyes darkened, with something dangerous flashing through them. "You slept beside me with a gun?"
I smiled faintly. "Would it have made you love me less?"
That stopped him for a heartbeat. Then, he laughed once, a sound without humor. "Love? Don't use that word like it means anything tonight."
"Then what should I call it?" I asked softly. "Possession?"
He took another step. The wall pressed against my back before I even realized I'd moved. He stood so close I could feel his breath brush my cheek.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I just don't like being lied to."
"You didn't ask," I reminded him.
"That's not an answer.
"It's the only one I'm giving."
The silence between us stretched tight, like a wire ready to snap. His eyes swept over my face, searching and demanding, but I didn't look away.
"You're calm," he said after a moment. "Too calm."
"Should I scream? Cry? Or beg?"
He leaned in and whispered. "You should act like your life was almost taken."
I tilted my head, smiling slightly. "Maybe it wasn't mine they came for."
That made him freeze. His hand shot out, catching my wrist. "Don't play games with me, Isabella."
"I'm not."
"Then tell me what you know."
I met his gaze. "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
He stared at me like he could force the truth out by sheer will. The air between us thickened, changed with something dangerous, not just anger, but hunger.
His hand moved from my wrist to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "You're hiding something," he whispered.
