What was he doing? What had come over him?
This was not the cold, distant laird who issued commands from across his desk. This laird was brimming with something raw and barely leashed.
Yet there was no softness in his eyes when she tilted her head to look at him. If anything, he looked angry. Dangerously so.
His head lowered until his breath fanned her forehead. “How dare ye let him touch ye like that?” he growled.
The words sank into her slowly, before dissolving into understanding.
Jealousy. That was all this was about. It was evident in his tight grip, in the length stiffening against her until she felt every thick inch of it.
But beneath all of that lurked something darker—dominance, possession.
Sorcha swallowed hard. Her thoughts scattered like smoke. She had planned to be defiant, but his proximity ruined everything. The warmth of him. The strength of his arm. The fury vibrating beneath his skin.
She did not know what to say.
He squeezed her waist harder. The pressure was deliberate and claiming.
Eventually, she found her voice, though it came out more shaky than she intended. “That is none of yer concern.”
At that, he growled. His hand came up to grab her chin without warning, tilting her face up until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. There was no trace of light in them now.
“This,” he said quietly, “will be the last time ye play games with me.”
He paused, his thumb pressing lightly against her jaw, forcing her attention where he wanted it.
His voice lowered further. “Do ye understand?”
For a moment, she could only stare at him. Stare at those dark brown eyes and parted lips. Until her disbelief bubbled up, sharp and incredulous.
A breathless chuckle escaped her lips. “Ye’ve got some nerve.”
His eyes narrowed. But she did not back down. Not now. She would not allow him to intimidate her into silence, not when his jealousy burned this bright.
She twisted slightly in his hold, such that her waist pressed against his hardness. The low growl that rumbled in his chest caused more wetness to pool between her thighs.
“To me,” she whispered, “it looks like ye’re fightin’ yerself.”
Emotion flickered in his eyes.
“I’ll do whatever I please,” she added, her stubbornness growing further. “And I’ll do it now. I’ll return to the party, choose the most handsome suitor, and let him touch me however I wish.”
13
Sorcha had barely finished speaking when the floor vanished beneath her feet.
Whatever she had uttered last had shattered William’s control. He had lifted her off her feet with effortless strength.
She yelped as he threw her over his broad shoulder. Her belly pressed against the hard curve of his shoulder, and her breasts squished against his back.
The position left her utterly helpless, utterly shocked.
“William, let me go!” Her fists pounded against his back, more startled than afraid.
William did not slow down. He did not speak. He smelled of leather and something unmistakably male, something that made heat coil in her chest.
“Put me down,” she snapped, breathless. “Ye’re overstepping!”
