Page 50 of A Forgotten Promise

He laughs humorlessly. “Believe me, sweetheart, your brother is the least of my problems, his little tantrum forgotten. I have a business to run here.”

“I hope you’re better at that than you are at the rest of humaning,” I quip.

He eats the distance between us, and I hate that I back up. My back hits the bookcase behind me.

“I swear to God, Saar…”

He doesn’t finish his threat, but his body crowds me in a way that is intimidating enough. Or it should be. Only I’m not scared. I’m so pissed at this man that no other emotion has room.

He smacks his hands on the shelf on each side of my head, caging me. He’s only an inch from me, but my body rejoices with such a visceral reaction that I barely swallow a gasp.

His cologne of pure masculinity and assholeness hits my nose, and I almost lean in to get a lungful.

“Well, we both know your word is worth shit, so I’m not afraid of your empty threats.” I’m tall, and yet I have to crane my neck.

“Pictures from our date are all over the internet. Cal saw them, so I only accelerated the process. I tried to call you, but you didn’t bother answering,sweetheart.”

He says the last word with so much disgust, I almost wish he drawled The Morrigan into my ear.

Wait? What? I don’t wish that.

“Whatever,” I snap, flustered. “You promised me autonomy, and yet you lead the show and disregard my needs or opinions, blindsiding me.”

“Again, it’s not my fault the pics were already out.” He growls, his breath fanning my skin.

Did he step closer? My breasts brush his chest with each breath. Or rather, each pant, because oxygen is in short supply, probably snatched by Quinn and his ego.

“Neither is it mine. It’s your PR handler, not mine.”

What is my point here? I can’t think when he crowds me like this. So why am I not pushing him away?

“Fair enough, but let’s be honest here. Neither of us thought about the staged photo op being a problem for your need to bend for your brothers.”

“I don’t bend for them,” I breathe out, much weaker than I’d like to. Goddammit.

He chuckles and trails his thumb from my temple, down my cheek, to my lips. He runs it across my bottom one, his eyes burning.

I swallow, so my tongue doesn’t dart out. My body got a free ticket today to defy my brain, apparently.

It’s like he’s a hunter and I’m his prey. He set his eyes on me, and I became a prisoner. There is heat in them, and also something ruthless and cold. But still captivating.

He leans in, his breath warm by my ear. “If history shows us anything, you’re not too keen to tell them the truth, so I’m sorry if I focus primarily on protecting my interests.”

I shiver. Not because he’s technically right, calling me out on my teenage failure. Or because he just confirmed he doesn’t give a shit about my feelings.

I tremble because the combination of his breath, his scent, and his proximity short-circuits my brain, momentarily erasing my hatred and replacing it with raw need.

And if I’m not mistaken, he is as affected as me. Judging by his growing erection against my lower belly. Jesus.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. His face is only an inch from mine, and this close, his burning gaze renders me speechless.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the logical corner offers words like “back off”, “go to Hell,” or “the deal is off”.

In the reality of his office, his kingdom, his dominance, I’m not saying any of those thoughts.

And the sad part? It’s not because I need this marriage probably more than him.

It’s because his vicinity forges some incomprehensible intimacy. One that I apparently crave. We stand there in a silent duel, our chests heaving, my skin covered with goose bumps, my mind useless, and my core ignited.

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