Page 39 of The Unplanned Wedding

His hold on my waist tightens, then he gently lowers me until my feet touch the floor. Only, he hasn’t let go of me. Instead, he spins me around to face him. Our gazes meet, and I swear, the world stops.

My heart descends to the space between my legs. The pulse blooms there and travels to my fingertips, my toes, and my scalp, which tightens. Silver sparks light up those blue eyes, turning them into a glacial inferno. The heat from his body is a lasso pulling me toward him. My chest grazes his wall-like torso, and I realize, we’re leaning toward each other.

A thousand little hummingbirds whirl their wings in my chest. I raise my head; he lowers his. I draw my gaze down the raised scar bisecting his cheek. Then, because I’ve wanted to for so long, I raise my hand and graze my fingers over the puckered skin. He pulls back so quickly, I stumble. He doesn’t steady me.

He takes a few steps back, then sinks down on the weight bench. I open my mouth to apologize for touching him, when he scrunches up his forehead. "Ah, Melanie, is it?"

I narrow my gaze on him.

He scrunches up his forehead, then his brow clears. He snaps his fingers. "It’s Renée." He nods. "Yep, Renée. Get me an energy drink, will you?"

What the—!All those lovely thoughts I had about him disappear with a pop. Genuine anger smolders up my spine. "You’ve taken this charade far enough, don’t you think?" I burst out.

He tilts his head, that look of polite boredom back on his features. But the tips of his ears grow white, and I swallow. I’ve managed to piss him off.Which is good, right? This way, he has a reason to punish me. To touch me. If I’m lucky, bend me over that bench and wallop my behind. I shudder.

He doesn’t move, but there’s no mistaking the heightened tension in the air between us. I tamp down on the nervous flutter in my belly and goad him further. "You know my name, so I don’t understand why it’s so difficult for you to call me by it?"

"Do I?" he drawls.

"My name. Is June," I snap.

He raises his shoulder. "That’s what I said."

I curl my fingers into fists at my sides. "No, you didn’t."

"Sure, I did." His tone is condescending. He has a smirk on his face, implying I'm the one who doesn’t know my own name. Anger squeezes my guts. I grit my teeth. "My name. Is. June, and don’t pretend you’re not aware. Or you can call me Cleopatra, if that’s easier for you to remember."

He blinks slowly.

The fact that he goes still should warn me I’ve overstepped a line, but the rage eating away at my insides, has me ignoring his reaction. “Actually, I prefer Queen Victoria or how about Duchess?” I nod. “I like the sound of that.”

His left eyelid twitches. The tips of his ears turn white. Horror grips me. I’ve done it. I’ve pissed him off. Only, he isn’t saying anything. He isn’t doing anything. He’s watching me how a predator watches its prey. He’s going to make me regret my outburst. He’s going to punish me.Yes!But whyhasn’t he moved a muscle? He seems to have turned into stone. And the way he’s glaring at me, the way he pins me with the weight of his gaze...is too much. My scalp tingles. My skin feels too tight for me.

The seconds stretch. My stomach churns, and my vision narrows. Before I can stop myself, I’ve closed the distance to the fallen bottle of water. I snatch it up and lob it at him. It hits his forehead and bounces off. It’s as if the world stops.

He freezes, then slowly raises his head and stares at me. Those cerulean eyes of his turn almost silver with rage. His nostrils flare, and he rises to his feet. I have to tilt my head back, and further back.

He takes a step forward. I gulp. He scans my features, and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. Then he drapes the towel over his shouldersand prowls toward me. A cloud of heat spools off of his body and slams into my chest. I gasp. I want to turn and run out of there, but my feet are cemented to the floor. He holds my gaze; sparks flare in the depths of his eyes as he bends his knees and peers into mine.

"Run," he snaps.

What does he mean by that? What in the—I try to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled sound. I gape.

"I’ll even give you a head start," he drawls.

This is not making any sense. "Excuse me?" I blink rapidly. "What do you mean by that?"

He bares his teeth like he hasn’t heard me speak. "You have until I count to five." He jerks his chin toward the doorway. "Go."

Knox

"Go, before I change my mind," I bite out.

She tripped, and for a split second, every cell in my body seemed to freeze. My heart stopped, then started up again. Bile laced my tongue, and I was on my feet and springing toward her. I don't recall placing my barbell back on the rack or swinging my feet to the ground, but there I was, behind her. In time to grab her around her waist and straighten her.

Then she brushed her fingers down the scar on my cheek. The shock of it felt like someone dropped me in a vat of boiling oil, then dumped icy water on me. No one else, other than the doctors attending to me, has touched me there since I was injured.

I hate how I look, hate the evidence of my mistakes. Hate my face. Hate what I’ve become since I left the Marines. I buried my feelings. I swore to never let myself care for anything or anyone again. And this slip of a woman comes along and rouses emotions I thought myself no longer capable of feeling.

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