Ryker’s expression hardens. His eyes flick between us, and I can see him putting pieces together.
“Of course.” He straightens, tension now visible in his shoulders. Challenge evident in his tone. “Violet, perhaps another time, then.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. Just gives her one last smile—warm, interested, everything I want to tear off his face—before heading toward the door.
He pauses at the threshold. Looks back.
“Darius.” His voice is mild now. Cloyingly kind. “You might want to get that hand looked at. Ink stains can be difficult to remove.”
The door swings shut.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I count to five. Make sure his footsteps have faded. Make sure we’re truly alone.
Then, I turn to face Violet.
She’s already on her feet, her eyes blazing. “What the hell was that?”
“Sit down.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, sit down.”
“I’m not a dog you can order around.” She slings her bag over her shoulder. “And I’m leaving.”
She takes two steps toward the door, but I move faster. My hand catches her wrist, spinning her around. Her bag drops as I back her against the conference table, my body caging her in.
“Let go of me,” she hisses.
“No.”
“Darius—”
“Stay away from Ryker.” The words come out as a growl.
Her eyes go wide. Then narrow. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
She tries to yank her wrist free. I don’t let go.
“You have no right to tell me who I can orcan’t talk to.”
“He’s a playboy.” I lean closer, breathing in her scent. “The Ravenhood heir has a reputation. He goes through women like they’re disposable.”
“So?” Her chin lifts in defiance. “Maybe I want to be used.”
These words hit harder than any physical blow. My free hand slams down on the table beside her hip, trapping her completely. Black ink smears across the polished wood. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” She’s breathing hard now, her chest heaving. “It’s my life. My choice. What I do with my body is none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.”
“Why?” she asks sharply. “Why do you care? You made it perfectly clear what you think of me. That I’m weak. That I don’t belong here. That I can barely function—”
“I was wrong.” The words rip from my throat before I can stop them.
