She swallows, slow.
“Men like that don’t separate pride from possession,” I say. “I embarrassed him. I put him on the floor. Over you.”
The words sit between us like a loaded weapon.
“So I’m…” she starts.
“You’re the reason he’s angry,” I say. “That’s enough.”
Fear flashes across her face, quiet and real. Something in me tightens.
She sets the mug on the counter with careful hands and steps toward me without thinking.
One step.
Then another.
Until she’s right in front of me.
Her hands fist in my shirt and she presses into my chest like she’s trying to climb into safety.
My body answers before my head catches up.
My arms close around her.
Slow. Firm. Protective.
She fits too easily.
Her cheek rests against my chest. Her breath warms the fabric.
I go still. Want hits too hard, too fast.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur.
“No, I’m not,” she whispers, stubborn. Then quieter, “Maybe you are.”
A sound leaves my throat, almost a laugh, almost a grunt.
My hand slides up her back, steadying her.
She tips her face up.
Close.
Too close.
Her eyes are wide, searching.
“Blade,” she says, like the word means something now.
My hand moves before I decide to allow it.
Two fingers under her chin.
I lift her face.
“Careful,” I say.
