Moon is staring, but his gaze is a distant hum compared to the primal alarm ringing in my blood.
Angel. Just Angel.
I move toward him, my focus a laser.
Angel's eyes lift to meet mine. In them, I see the ghost of fear dissolving into a wash of profound relief.
Thank god.
My hand starts to rise, to reach for him, to pull him behind me where he'll be safe.
A hand closes around my wrist. Not Angel's. The grip is firm, warm, and utterly inescapable.
My head snaps to the side. Moon has risen from the couch with a predator's fluid speed. His fingers are a brand on my skin.
I try to yank my arm back, but his hold only tightens—a silent, infuriating declaration of control.
He doesn't look at me. His icy blue eyes fix on Angel, and his voice is a smooth, dismissive command.
"You can go."
Angel's eyes snap to me, wide and uncertain, searching—for permission, for safety, for some sign that he's allowed to move.
