His hands come up on either side of my head, palms flat against the bookshelf, caging me in.
Not touching me.
But close enough that I can smell him, soap and something woodsy and clean. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. Close enough that my own body is doing things my brain has not authorized.
“I meant,” he says, his voice low and fierce, “every single word.”
I can’t breathe.
“I told you I’m in love with you, and I am.” He leans closer. “And I’m done waiting for you to stop running long enough to hear me.”
“Veil—”
“You want to know who you’re dealing with?” His eyes are so blue this close. So impossibly blue. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t give me space.
Just keeps me trapped there against the bookshelf while he tears down every wall between us.
“I’m obsessive,” he says. “When I want something, I don’t stop until I have it. And I want you.”
My throat has gone dry.
“I’m possessive.” His voice drops lower. “I won’t share. I won’t tolerate another man looking at you the way I look at you.”
This is not what I expected.
Where’s the smooth duke from the calligraphy workshop? Where’s the man who made everything feel like a game?
This Veil is different.
Fierce.
Raw.
Real.
“I’m demanding,” he continues. “I’ll want all of you. Your time. Your attention. Your thoughts. I won’t let you hide from me or pretend you don’t feel what I know you feel.”
“I’m jealous.” His jaw clenches. “Irrationally so. I watched Lord Chesterton touch your arm at the exhibition last week and I wanted to break something.”
Wait.
Lord Chesterton touched my arm?
I don’t even remember that.
But he does.
“I’m not easy, Evianne. I’m not the charming prince who’ll make everything simple and comfortable. I’ll push you. Challenge you. Drive you absolutely mad.”
My hands are shaking.
“But—” His forehead nearly touches mine. “I’ll give you everything in return. My time. My attention. My loyalty. Every part of me, the good and the bad and the difficult. It’s all yours if you’ll have it.”
I’m trembling now, pressed against the bookshelf with nowhere to run, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room. In the house. In the world.
“So no more hiding,” he says. “No more five a.m. schedule rearranging. No more pretending you’re fine when you’re terrified.”
