The word lodged under his ribs—sharp and jagged.
“Maybe not,” she snapped, still not looking at him. “Maybe it was good I was there. It opened my eyes.”
“To what?” he demanded.
“To how things really are. To the reality of your life, Rhavor.”
He stepped closer, the heat of the ovens nothing compared to the heat radiating off him.
“I don’t want you getting the wrong impression. Ronda was—”
He noticed a bead of sweat slide into the hollow of her collarbone, disappearing beneath the fabric of her shirt.
His mouth went dry.
He wanted to press his lips there.
To drag his tongue over her warm skin and erase every doubt—every shadow of another woman from her mind.
She finally looked at him.
The hurt in her eyes hit him harder than her anger ever could.
“Yes,” she said. “I got the wrong impression. That’s on me.”
“What do you mean? A wrong impression of me?”
“Yes. Of who you are. Of what you want.”
“I am who I am,” he growled. “I can’t change my blood, Sylvie. I can’t change my history.”
“You certainly change your mind when it suits you.”
“I don’t change my mind,” he shot back. “ I’m attached for life. I don’t let go.”
He stepped closer again.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice trembling. “Don’t look at me like that. That’s how you make people forget you’re dangerous.”
He stilled.
“Dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t change who I am,” he said again, his voice rough.
“I’m not asking you to. I was blind, Rhavor. I didn’t see the reality of what that meant at first.”
Blind?
Like being with him had been a lapse in judgment.
“It’s my nature,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I am a dragon, Sylvie.”
“Well, your nature isn’t compatible with mine.”
Something cold twisted in his gut.
