His throat bobbed slightly as he prepared to shake off the woman, but Althea seemed to sense it,her grip tightened. Having known Dante longer than anyone, she believed she understood at least some of his temper. Her lashes trembled, and in the next moment, a hot tear landed on his hand.
Dante's body stilled slightly. He raised his eyes. Althea's face was streaked with tears, her eyes filled with desperate pleading.
"That woman in the room doesn't even like you. She was never yours to begin with."
He stared at her in silence. Then, the hand that had been clenched slowly dropped to his side.
His lips pulled into a half-smile, not of compromise, but bitter self-mockery.
How could he not see through her performance?
After a few seconds, he asked softly, "Then what is mine?"
His voice was hoarse, and the faint warmth in his light-colored eyes disappeared entirely, leaving only cold detachment.
"This is the last time, Mrs. Tate."
