"Not. Here." The words came out as a low growl, the first he'd spoken since they'd left the terrace.
She went quiet at that, perhaps finally hearing the dangerous edge in his voice. The promise of exactly what kind of discussion they were going to have once they were behind closed doors.
His chambers were at the end of the corridor, past shadow-guards who straightened to attention and tried very hard not to stare at their lord dragging his tribute past them with violence in every line of his body.
The heavy wooden door, carved with intricate scenes of death and rebirth, loomed ahead.
"Dante." Her voice was quieter now, almost tentative. Uncertainty creeping in beneath the anger. "I?—"
His name. His actual name, from her lips. Not the title, not "LordReaper," butDante. After she'd wielded it like a weapon at the gathering, used it to cut him in front of everyone.
Now it sounded different. Softer. Almost like she was reaching for him.
It nearly broke him.
"Save it," he said without looking at her, reaching for the door handle. "Whatever you're going to say, whatever explanation or excuse you have, save it for when we're alone."
The door swung open to reveal his private sanctuary. He guided her inside, finally releasing her as he turned to face her for the first time since they'd left the gathering.
The moment the door sealed shut behind them, Brynn put space between them. Quick steps backward until she was in the center of his chamber, arms crossed defensively over her chest.
The firelight caught her figure, played across the curves he'd watched other men admire all evening. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Now you can explain what the hell that was about," she said, her jaw set in that stubborn way that made him want to either throttle her or kiss her senseless. Both. Definitely both. "What gave you the right to drag me away from a diplomatic gathering like?—"
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at her, really looked at her—taking in the flush of anger on her cheeks. The defensive set of her shoulders, even as she stood her ground against the Reaper, who was barely containing himself.
She was magnificent. Beautiful and fierce and completely, utterly his.
"You're going to stand there and glare at me?" Her voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding into anger. "After what you just did? Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? How?—"
She started to pace, gesturing sharply as the words poured out of her in a rush. Her movements were agitated, catching light with each step.
"Every Death Lord there watched you drag me away like some kind of primitive, like I was property you were reclaiming. Like I hadno say in the matter. Like my choices don't matter at all because you decided?—"
He moved.
One moment, she was in the center of the room, ranting about his behavior, her hands gesturing wildly. The next he was there in front of her, crowding her space with his body. He backed her up until her shoulders hit the stone wall with a soft thump.
His hands slammed against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in with his body without quite touching her. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the violence radiating from him.
But not touching. Not yet.
The effort of holding himself back made his arms tremble against the stone. Made his breath come ragged. Every instinct screamed at him to close the distance, to claim her mouth, to show her exactly who she belonged to.
"Stop. Moving." His voice came out low and dangerous, finally unleashing everything he'd been holding back all evening. All the jealousy and possessiveness and desperate need he'd been trying to control.
Her eyes went wide, her breath catching audibly. Her pulse hammered visibly in her throat, fast and frantic.
She was pressed against his wall, caged by his arms, surrounded by his shadows, and her body was responding to him, anger be damned. He could see it in the flush spreading down her neck. In the way her lips parted. In the slight sway toward him before she caught herself.
She was just as affected as he was.
And they both knew it.
Between them, the air crackled with tension that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fact that they were finally, finally alone.
LVIII.
