“Where are they?”
“Alive.”
“If that is the only answer you give me, this is going to be a very boring conversation.”
“You are many things. Boring is not one of them.”
I keep my face still. “Why do you keep saying things like that?”
“Because you dislike hearing it from me.”
“I dislike many things about you,” I quip.
“I noticed.” His thumb shifts against my wrist. “You tried to stab me with my own letter opener.”
“It was available.”
“So was the decanter.”
I shrug as I say, “Too heavy. Too obvious.”
His mouth curves at that. “You considered it, though.”
“Briefly.”
“How very practical.”
“I try,” I say, once more attempting to shift out of his hold. Which remains unyielding.
He studies me with an interest that feels less like lust than evaluation, which somehow makes it more intimate. More intimidating. The men at the auction looked at my body. Stefano looks at the decisions behind it. The difference shouldn’t matter, but it does, and I hate him a little more for being difficult to categorize.
I lean closer, because if he wants me off-balance, I can return the favor. “Where are the children?”
“Keep misbehaving, and you won’t see them at all.”
My face falls, and his eyes change by a fraction, almost satisfaction, almost regret, not enough of either to be useful to me.
I hate him. I hate that he found the one lever guaranteed to work. I hate that he knows it.
“You have them?”
“I have them, safe.”
“Here?”
“Close enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one I’m giving you. For now.”
I pull harder against his hand. He doesn’t let go. “You smug son of a bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Do you ever deny anything?” I ask, exasperated.
“Occasionally.”
