Noah studies me—eyes scanning every inch of my face, like I’m a puzzle he refuses to leave unsolved.
His jealousy thickens the air.
It isn’t about the knife.
It’s about the idea that someone touched me.
Thought about me.
Sent something to me.
Marked me with a word Noah doesn’t get to decode.
He steps even closer, his voice a low warning.
“You’re hiding something.”
My inhale trembles.
“I’m not.”
His jaw flexes.
“You’re lying.”
I flinch—small, involuntary.
And that’s when his eyes darken.
He sees it.
He sees too much.
In a slow, deliberate motion, Noah lifts a hand and places two fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face up toward his.
“Look at me.”
I do.
Because I have to.
Because if I don’t, he’ll know I’m breaking.
His voice is quiet, lethal.
“I’m your fiancé. I protect what’s mine. So if there’s a threat, if there’s someone trying to get close to you—” His fingers press just enough to hold me still. “—I will handle it.”
My breath catches.
Not in fear.
In something colder.
I whisper, barely audible, “There’s no one.”
He studies me for another long, suffocating second, then releases my chin—not gently, not harshly. Simply… claiming.
He steps back, the tension in his shoulders refusing to leave.
