Lorraine gasped, not from pain, but shock. The heat of his palm seared through the gauze of her veil. His grip wasn't cruel, not yet. It hovered on the precipice: firm, unrelenting, testing her pulse as if reading a secret under her skin. As if seeing through her.
As if… deciding whether to crush her windpipe or spare her.
His breath ghosted across the silk at her lips. Warm and slow with a twinge of possessiveness. His scent, a mixture of steel and earth, wrapped around her like a forgotten memory.
She stared up at him, her heart a storm trapped in a gilded cage. The light was dim. She could only see his silhouette, and yet, there was no fury on his face. No snarling rage. Just that quiet, unshakable storm in his eyes.
Dark. Certain. Lethal. As if killing were not a decision for him, but a language. One he could do fluently and effortlessly.
Her pulse thundered, wild and reckless. It would take him less than a breath to end her. One squeeze. One shift of muscle.
