Page 205
“Ravenswood is one of our estates.”
The mattress gives way, the sheet pulls taut; his body leans over mine without crushing me, and for that very reason, he feels more present.
“Evander.”
Two fingers take hold of my face. His thumb follows the line of my jaw, forcing me to turn. Our gazes lock, the scant light etches his mouth, his cheekbones, his neck.
He is still half-asleep, but in his eyes, there is no longer a trace of torpor. His breath vibrates against my lips, with his thumb, he brushes the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t—” my tone is low. “I have no interest in you, Dorian. Nor in your life. Nor in your past.”
He does not move, but something in his features hardens.
“Lzhyosh,” he says softly.
I feel heat spreading inside me, over me, through my every fiber. The tone of his voice is far raspier than I have ever heard. His thumb slides away from my mouth, remaining inches away, motionless.
The distance between us becomes uncertain.
“What does it mean?”
He moves closer again, and his voice falls over me, whispered into my ear, identical but darker.
“You lie.”
I turn my face and plant a hand against his chest to create distance. Dorian smiles. His fingers sink into my lips, pulling them with a force that is almost brutal.
“Say that you were lying.”
I keep my eyes averted. His fingers stiffen for a second, then he seizes my chin and wrenches my face toward him.
“Say it.”
“I should rather swallow my own tongue.”
“Stop pretending.”
I try to slide away, to escape his weight, but his hand pinches my side.
“Why should it matter to me?”
His fingers find the edge of the sheet and lower it slowly, without haste.
“I want to know everything about you, Viscount.”
The fabric slides further.
“What you desire.”
The breathing of both of us changes. One need not look to notice.
“What you fear.”
I cannot pull my gaze away from his hair.
“What you think.”
The wine and the nausea retreat, leaving space for a more visceral heat. I do not stop him. I have no intention of doing so.
