Page 58 of His Bride

“I didn’t run away. You gave me no choice.”

“What? Because I don’t buy your father’s lies?”

“Because you couldn’t look past your hate for him and see that I needed you to help protect my brother.”

“Your father is lying,” he grits.

“Maybe he is, but what if he’s not? I’m not taking that chance.” I grab the ring and shove it against his chest, forcing him totake it. “And fuck you for making me choose between you or my brother.”

“You didn’t have to make that choice.”

“Yes!” I snap. “Yes, I had to. And even if this threat on my brother’s life isn’t true, you know as well as I do that one of us would have walked out on this marriage eventually.”

“Not me, New York,” he says, clutching the ring. “Not me.”

“Bullshit. You might act like you’re this independent hotshot who doesn’t need anyone, who doesn’t get told what to do. But you’re a Del Rossa, and loyalty runs through your fucking blood.”

He frowns. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Your family hates me after what happened to Alexius. They blame me, and they will never accept me. I will never be a Del Rossa, not to them.”

“That is complete bullshit.”

“Is it?”

“You are my wife!” His voice rips through the air, slamming against my chest with a thud that knocks the air from me.

I’m speechless, silent, as he moves closer, his eyes fire and thunder. His every move, every breath, it’s all rage and lust—a storm I’m instantly caught in. The mask of a hunter he wears so well makes me tingle and melt, wanting to run and submit.

Caelian stalks me into the wall. No one’s coming in. Not with menus or drinks, not to check if I’m alive and still breathing. He’s a Del Rossa.

“I’ll scream,” I say, my voice trembling. “My guards?—”

“Your guards won’t dare come near that door.” There’s a threat in there somewhere. “You have your guards, and I have mine. Mine are bigger than yours. Meaner.” And there it is.

“You asshole.” I force myself to breathe, and he’s all I smell, that evocative aroma of him I easily get high on, numbing all my resistance with a rush of ecstasy.

With a fierce grip, he takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up at him, my mouth a breath from his.

“Has another man touched you?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.” He smirks as if he expected the lie. Anticipated it. Loves it. It’s all a game to him. “I’ve had you watched every goddamn second since you left.”

My heart hammers.

“Every move you made, you made it because Iallowedit.” His voice is low as he enunciates every word, and I swear to God I’m such a fucking sucker because what should offend me, what should freak me the hell out, is making me want him even more. It has my body humming, my blood singing as electric chills flow through every inch of me.

His eyes search mine, his warm breath clinging to my wet lips, and he squeezes his fingers into my cheeks, puckering my mouth, inching closer.

I want him to kiss me.

Ineedhim to kiss me.

Seconds turn to eons, like he’s dragging it out because he’s not the kind of hunter who goes straight for the throat. He savors it, the tension that slices and dices the flesh of his prey. That’s what he gets high on. That’s what feeds his hunger.

His eyes are on mine as he keeps his lips a mere breath from my own, and when they finally touch—a whisper of a touch—our gazes are still locked.

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