The silence didn’t last too long because Zane and Stash—I was really beginning to feel like I owed them—started up the conversation at the table.
Katie said quietly, “He really is a hottie. I’ve seen him.” Waggling her eyebrows, she offered—what she so obviously thought was helpful, “He’s a cop. And he has these green eyes that are so clear…”
Half the table went silent again, apparently multitasking even better than I sometimes did. Ember asked slowly, “Would Don’s last name happen to be Phillips?”
My mom’s face lit, and she nodded. “Yes. Do you know him?”
Ember’s eyes widened and her jaw gaped for a moment. Her eyes began to travel to Daniil, who I hadn’t glanced at yet, but they slammed back to my mom and her mouth snapped shut. She nodded, her lips twitching. “Yeah. I actually went on a few dates with him at one point in my life.” She glanced at me, her gaze utterly amused. “Elizabeth, your mom’s right. It won’t be a hardship for you.”
Grigori started chuckling softly and quickly cleared his throat even as my aunt grabbed my leg under the table. Brutally. Her fingers digging into my inner thigh.
Wincing, I tried prying her fingers off as Mom began a conversation with Ember about this Don Phillips guy. But my aunt only gripped my leg tighter, and I glanced at her. Her eyes were huge, and she was staring directly across the table. At Daniil.
After peeking over at my dad, I ventured a glance at Daniil. And froze.
He was…upset.
Very,veryupset. Or furious.
Maybe in a killing mood would be a better way to phrase it.
Apparently, Mom, Ember, and Katie weren’t lying. And he knew it, too.
My gut was telling me he had seen Don—who must be fucking gorgeous from Daniil’s reaction—at some point, and most definitely didn’t like me going on this date.
He stared. At me. Blatantly. His eyes onfire.
Furious. Possessive. Carnal. Ruthless.
It was all there. In dark brown, uncompromising orbs.
Aimed. At. Me.
Unhurried, he set his cup of coffee down and then moved his hand under the table.
When it appeared again, there was a cell phone in his grasp.
His nostrils flared, and he mouthed, “Not. A. Fucking. Chance.”
Licking my dry lips, I sucked in a breath when I realized I hadn’t breathed since turning toward him. I watched as he—finally—looked away from me, dropping his head slightly, and focused on his cell. My aunt shivered, apparently no longer trapped by him, and her head snapped toward me as his fingers flew across his touch screen.
She squeezed my thigh even harder, putting her mouth directly against my ear. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Licking my lips again, I nodded. Yeah. I knew what I was doing.
I kicked him under the table.
His response? A slight eyebrow lift.
I kicked harder.
A tiny puff of air left his lips.
I kicked him as hard as I could right in his shin.
The response? I shouted when it felt like I broke my foot.
His hand immediately went under the table, grabbing his gun, which I perceived the briefest flash of when I jumped up, shaking my foot. Everyone watched me hobble about. I felt tears spring to my eyes, and they burned, but I pushed them back and leaned heavily over the table.
