I lean forward, elbows to my knees, hands hanging loose, and let her see me drop the lazy flirt — just for a breath. “I’m going to tell you something,” I say. “And you’re going to listen to me, Ember.”
Her breath stutters.Ember. Not Red this time. I watch that land in her shoulders.
I lower my voice. “You keep saying‘I deserve.’ ‘I deserve answers. I deserve the truth.’And maybe you do. I even think you do,” I add, because honesty always sits better on the tongue when you deliver it like sin. “But understand where you are. You are inourhouse. You are underourroof. You are walking around in a deal we should’ve never signed that’s got our names on it like a confession. You are sitting atourtable, withmycoffee, in a shirt that smells like Caelum’s soap, with Wraith ready to put his body between you and a bullet without asking why. You don’t get to walk into that and start throwing around ‘I deserve.’”
Her chin lifts.
God, I love that.
“You think I’mscaredof you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “But I’d like you to be.”
Her lips part, eyes darken to a deeper shade of blue.
I lean in, just a little closer, enough that I can feel the heat rolling off her skin. “Fear keeps youalive, Ember. You understand that?”
She swallows. Her voice drops to something quieter. “I’ve been alive without you just fine.”
“Mmm.” I tilt my head. “Is that what you call what you were doing?”
Her eyes flash.
Good. That hit her the way I intended for it to.
Now I let the lazy back in, because she’s cracked just enough to feel it. I slide two fingers under her chin and tip her face to me. Not hard. Not cruel. Just… claiming.
Like I’m inspecting a bruise I paid for.
She freezes. Not with fear. With awareness. Her breath goes tight, shallow. Her pupils kick wide. Her mouth parts just a hair — enough to pull at the split in her bottom lip. The sight of that almost ruins me.
“Look at me,” I murmur.
She tries not to. Fights it for as long as her body will allow. Then she does.
Her eyes lock on mine. Ice blue to pitch black. Defiant. Trembling. Wanting. Hating that she’s wanting.
“There she is,” I whisper. “Good morning, trouble.”
Her throat works. She lets out a small, shaky sound and tries to mask it with attitude. “You are such anasshole.”
“I know,” I say warmly.
Her pulse is a drum at the base of her throat. I have a sudden, electric urge to put my mouth there and feel it against my tongue.
My thumb strokes along her jaw once, slow, savoring. Her skin is soft. Warm. She holds perfectly still, like prey told to freeze.
“I like you better like this,” I murmur. “When you’re not performing so hard.”
Her brows knit. “Performing?”
“Mm.” I sit back a fraction but I don’t take my hand away yet. I keep my fingers under her chin, a point of contact she can’t quite get out from under without pulling hard enough to make a scene. “Last night, at the table? All fire. All spit. ‘Put it in writing.’ The audacity of a little fox who doesn’t know she’s already in the wolf’s mouth.”
Her eyes flash. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“I know you did,” I purr. “That’s what made it so entertaining.”
She swallows, and I feel the movement against my fingers.
