“In my dreams,” I say warmly, “you’re a lot louder than this.”
Her cheeks go high with color so fast it’s almost pretty.
Ah. There it is. Under the anger. Under the spitfire. Under the “fuck you, Vale.” There’s heat.
Want.
And confusion about the fact that there’s want.
Good morning to me.
I push off the counter, slow, lazy, like there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than crossing this kitchen toward her. The townhouse smells like coffee and frying butter, and her — paint and soap and warm skin. I like the way it clings this morning. I like that she smells like she slept in our sheets.
Her eyes track me. She doesn’t move her body. Smart girl. Predators lunge when prey bolts.
I set my mug on the table, not across from her. Beside her. Close enough that the heat of me meets the heat coming off her shoulders.
“Eat,” I tell her softly.
“Is that an order?” she mutters.
“Yes.”
She huffs, low. But she tears another strip of toast and actually puts it in her mouth this time. Chews. Swallows. Glares.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
Her lips part, offended. Perfect.
“I swear to God,” she says, voice low, “if one more man in this house calls me that—”
“You’llwhat?” I lean in a fraction, lazy smile staying where it lives. “Scratch me? Curse at me? Try to knee me in the balls like you tried with Wraith? By the way, he was flattered.”
“I was aiming higher than his balls,” she says sweetly.
God, she’s going to be the death of someone. Maybe me. Wouldn’tthatbe fun.
I sink into the chair next to her — the one she refused yesterday — and sprawl the way I always do: long legs, one arm draped over the backrest, body turned to face her like I’msettling in for a private show. I don’t bother hiding the way my gaze drags. I want her to feel it. I want her to feel watched and wanted and not sure which one is worse.
She feels it.
Her throat works. Her fingers tighten around the mug.
But she still tries. She still fights. “Where are your…princes?”
“Princes,” I echo, pleased. “That’s adorable. That what you’ve decided we are, Red? A little court for you to spit at?”
Her jaw clenches at the nickname, but she doesn’t correct me. Progress.
I tap my thumb once against my thigh, thinking as I talk. “Wraith’s out. Saint’s pretending the garden is a confessional and not where he hides to pretend he’s not thinking about you. Ash hasn’t left his screens since last night. King went hunting.”
Her eyes flicker, fast. “Hunting who?”
I grin. “And why would I tell you that,little thief?”
Her mouth curves, slow and small and dangerous. “Because if it has to do with Owen, I deserve to know.”
Ah. There it is again. She says his name like a blade, like she trusts it to cut both of us.
