"Phei," she called softly.
He raised his head and met her eyes, amethyst against hers, and her cheeks turned red all over again.
Then his gaze dropped, and with his free hand he carefully helped her leg back down from the exposing position she had unknowingly assumed. The touch was gentle, respectful, and somehow that made it worse.
Her whole body shivered as his hand guided her leg down to hang properly from the side of the car, then adjusted the fabric of her dress back into place to cover her exposed self.
"Sorry, princess," he said softly.
Nastya swallowed, trying to regain the composure that had apparently fallen off the Cullinan and died somewhere on the polished floor.
"It is fine."
That small thing, the way he had covered her without making it a moment, without smirking, or taking the cheap advantage a lesser man would have grabbed with both hands, undid her more than any flattery had.
