Her eyes flew wide. “I-I’m sorry... I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have just entered like this.”
He let out a rough sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a grunt. He couldn’t even find bloody words.
“Your gloves,” she said, gaze flicking back to his hands. “You’re not wearing them.”
He flexed his hands, a reflex, resisting snatching his gloves up and tugging them on. “Not in my room.”
“Ah.” She hesitated, then stepped forward, only a pace, shutting the door behind her. Prince hovered behind her like a pale shadow, his head turning toward Maxen, watchful.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Maxen said.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. “I know.”
Chapter Nineteen
Calliope hadn’t knownwhat to expect when the door creaked open. Well, fine, she’d expected something ordinary. Notthis.
Maxen stood there.
Bare.
Bare. Chested. Bare chested. Bare hands. Her heart didn’t just beat. It stuttered, then paused, then thundered like it meant to escape her entirely. Every rational thought fled as her gaze swept over him.
He was amanman.
Muscle and scars and muscle.
And stars save her, she wanted to press her mouth to every scar, trace every line with her tongue and ask the stories with her hands. Not a thought a sensible woman should indulge! But Maxen Fury didn’t make her feel sensible.
He made her feelwild.
Broad shoulders, cut from some wicked sculptor’s fantasy. The planes of his chest a canvas of sin, defined and dusted with a line of dark hair that arrowed down toward the waistband of his trousers. There was a scar just above his heart—red and angry—like he’d been stabbed. Slice marks adorned his ribs, his side, even his abdomen. Some clean. Some ragged. Each one a story she might never get to hear but was still dying to know anyway.
She swallowed hard.
If she’d thought him handsome before... This wasdangerous, dangerous.
Every instinct screamed that she shouldn’t be here. That she should turn around, close the door, pretend she hadn’t come to him at all. But her feet wouldn’t obey. Why had she come here again?
Oh, yes. Concern.
Yet, now, no words would form on her lips.
His brow drew together. “Is something wrong?”
Wrong. Hah. Everything about this moment waswrong. But somehow, also maddeningly, frighteningly right.
“No,” she said, her voice oddly breathless. “I—um. No.”
His gaze dropped to her hands, as if searching for signs of distress. Then his eyes rose again, calm, unreadable. But there was something there. A flicker of calculation. Something darker beneath the coolness.
She shouldn’t stare. But her gaze dropped to his hands again. Big hands. Calloused and strong. But inked. The tattoos on his palms, black swirling lines that twisted into forms and runes she didn’t quite recognize. Even his fingers were inked. She imagined one brushing down her cheek. She imagined all five pressing into her back.
Calliope!
Since when did you become a woman to have such thoughts?
She stepped closer without meaning to. “I mean... are those names on your fingers?”
