A beat that doesn’t feel like fear.
It feels likefocus.
I slide my arms up, just a little. Not wrapping around him, not that bold, but enough to lift my elbows. Totake space.
He notices. Of course he does. I catch the flicker of something like approval in the tilt of his chin.
“You’re braver than you look,” he says.
I snort. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
I take a shaky breath, and the air tastes like sweat and alcohol and something darker—something that clings to him like smoke. Like danger. I should walk away. I should cut the moment before it turns into something I regret.
But I’m tired of regrets.
“Why didn’t you hit me?” I ask.
His eyes flash down to mine.
“I don’t hit people for fun,” he says.
“Then what do you hit them for?”
His expression doesn’t change, but something behind it sharpens.
“Necessity.”
A beat.
“And you weren’t necessary.”
I nod like that makes sense, like it doesn’t send a thrill down my spine I didn’taskfor.
“I thought you might kill me,” I admit.
“You wanted me to?”
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs, one massive shoulder rising and falling like tectonic shift. “You looked like you were hoping for something.”
I bristle. “I wasn’t hoping todie.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
I glare. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re twitchy.”
“You’re smug.”
“You’re drunk.”
“That’s entirely Cynna’s fault.”
He doesn’t smile, but I feel the ripple of something like it. Not amusement. More like… interest.
