Fingers wrap around my wrist in a grip that is just shy of painful. Tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to make my shoulder protest as he yanks me toward him.
"Why are you not some quivering coward anymore?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, his face too close to mine. Those cold blue eyes bore into me like he is trying to see through my armor. Like he is searching for the scared little girl he remembers. "Where is the pathetic little nerd who used to cry every time someone looked at her wrong? Who used to shake when I walked by?"
My heart is pounding.
My wrist aches where his fingers are digging in.
And somewhere deep inside me, that scared little girl is screaming. Run. Hide. Make yourself small. Do whatever it takes to make the bad man stop.
No.
She is dead. I killed her myself. Buried her in therapy sessions and late-night tears, and the slow, painful process of rebuilding from rubble.
And I will be damned if I let him resurrect her.
I meet his eyes and hold them.
"She grew up," I say quietly. "And she stopped giving power to people who did not deserve it."
Something flickers across his face.
Surprise, maybe.
Or recognition of a challenge he was not expecting. His grip tightens on my wrist, fingers pressing into bone.
But before either of us can say anything else, an arm wraps around my waist.
Strong. Firm. Pulling me backward out of Bastien's grip and into a solid chest that smells like evergreens and old books and safety.
Etienne.
His growl vibrates through me, low and primal and absolutely menacing. His arm tightens around my middle like a steel band, tucking me against him like he is shielding me from a threat.
"Touche ma belle encore une fois," he snarls at his brother, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the force of a shout, "et je te defonce la gueule."
Touch my beautiful one again, and I will knock your fucking face in.
Ma belle.
He called me ma belle.
My beautiful one.
My brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds.
I can feel the tension coiled in every muscle of his body.
Feel the barely restrained violence thrumming just beneath the surface. His scent has changed too, sharpened intosomething protective and possessive that makes my Omega hindbrain perk up with entirely inappropriate interest.
It is fake. Obviously fake. We are still playing the pretend game from earlier.
So why does my stomach flip like it means something real?
Bastien's grip on my wrist loosens in surprise. He steps back, blinking at his younger brother like he is seeing him for the first time.
Then that ugly smirk returns, slower this time.
More calculating.
