Page 68 of Black Heart

I drop my drill on a nearby table and unlace my boots, pretending ignorance. “Who was that?”

Layla sighs. “That was Emmett Dawson. He’s insisting I attend this corporate event tonight. Some kind of tech showcase the company’s hosting.”

She moves to the kitchen, busying herself with pouring water into a kettle. “It’s just a glorified PR stunt, really. Showing off our latest security protocols to potential clients. Normally, I’d be all over it. It’s a chance to present my work, network, that sort of thing. But given that I’m not allowed to leave my house ... are you going to say anything?”

I blink, realizing I’ve fallen into the soothing cadence of her voice and was unintentionally mesmerized by her graceful movements as she goes about her nightly routine of hot tea and a book.

She asks over her shoulder, “No disapproving grunts? No snippy orders reminding me to stay put?”

“Isn’t that understood?” I say, my voice gruff even to my own ears.

“Right,” she whispers after a while over the low rumble of the boiling water.

Layla turns when she notices me crossing the room, tracking my movements with a steady intensity that makes my trigger finger twitch, a reflex I can’t quite control. It itches to eliminate anyone who dares to threaten her.

I stop at the entrance of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, watching her.

“Did he say anything else?” I ask.

She diverts her attention to the steaming kettle.

“No,” she says too quickly, her voice a notch higher than usual.

“Are you sure, Wraithling?”

My question is as musical as ice cracking under heated pressure.

“He asked me to be his date to the conference,” she admits, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

Something snaps inside me. In two strides, I’m across the kitchen, crowding her against the counter. My hands slam down on either side of her, caging her in.

“If he ever asks you that again, I’ll peel the skin from his fingers. I’ll carve out his tongue and feed it to him. I’ll make him beg for death long before I grant it.”

Layla stops breathing, the whites of her eyes visible. But there’s no trepidation in them, only a fervor that matches the inferno raging inside me.

“You are not his to pursue,” I continue, lowering my head. Her scent—coconut and sea salt—fills my senses. “You are under my protection. My ... care.”

My focus drops to her open mouth, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to claim it, not to hoist her onto the counter and show her exactly who she belongs to.

Instead, I force myself to step back, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

“Do you understand?” I ask, my voice rough.

Layla nods, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I understand,” she whispers, a mix of emotions I can’t quite decipher flitting across herface.

I give her the cold shoulder, needing to put distance between us before I lose what little control I have left.

“Good,” I mutter.

“Where are you going?” she asks behind me.

“I still have work to do.”

The lie slips out smoothly.

As I stalk out of the kitchen, I can feel Layla’s eyes burning into my back.

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