Her silence?
Was the loudest yes of all.
I leaned in, slow and deliberate, letting the heat of my body wrap around her like smoke.
She glared up at me, fierce and fire-eyed, chin lifted in defiance she was barely holding together.
“You’re furious,” I said softly, studying the way her hands clenched into fists like she was trying to keep herself from striking me.
“Of course I am,” she spat. “You’ve turned my life upside down.”
I smiled. “And yet,” I murmured, letting my eyes rake over her slowly, “you’re still in that robe.”
Her nostrils flared. Her shoulders tensed. The pulse in her throat jumped—and I stepped closer, feeding off it all.
Too close now.
Close enough for her to feel the restraint vibrating in my bones.
Close enough to smell the adrenaline on her skin.
“Do you want to take it off again, Persephone?”
I said it low. Soft. Dangerous.
And fuck, the way she shivered.
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she reached for the plate beside her—a white porcelain thing, clean, delicate.
Her expression was carved from rage and resolve.
And then?—
She threw it.
I could’ve caught it.
Maybe I should’ve.
But the sound of it shattering against the floor was too perfect to interrupt.
The crash echoed around us like a warning bell.
I laughed—low and slow; the sound curling around her like a chain. “Good morning to you too, wife.”
Her breath was coming faster now. Her cheeks flushed, hands still shaking at her sides.
She opened her mouth—ready to spit something brutal.
But then…
She paused.
That hesitation?
Oh, it fed me.
