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The moment he’s gone, I grab Morpheus’s arm and drag him into an empty gallery.

Or attempt to.

Moving a seven-foot immortal against his will is about as effective as pushing a cathedral.

“What the hell was that?”

He looks pleased.

“A successful conversation.”

“You practically threatened him!”

“I merely explained that you are spoken for.”

My temper flares.

“Excuse me?”

His smile fades.

Uh-oh.

He knows that tone.

“Calla.”

“No. We’re having this conversation right now.”

He folds his arms.

“I’m listening.”

“Good. Because I don’t belong to anyone. And we are not lovers. People in civilized society don’t generally announce those things.”

His jaw tightens. “I did not mean…”

“Yes, you did.”

He opens his mouth.

I hold up a finger.

“Don’t.”

He closes it.

Progress.

“Look, I like you. A lot. Probably more than is sensible considering you’re three thousand years old and think modern civilization is a personal inconvenience.”

His mouth twitches.

“But kissing you doesn’t mean you get to make decisions for me. And it does not make us lovers.”

“I would protect you.”

“Then protect me. Don’t possess me.”