Page 21 of His Temptation

She swallowed hard. Of course, he knew. Of course, he’d been watching her.

She set the mug down carefully, meeting his gaze head-on. “Wouldn’t you, if you were in my position?”

Something dark and satisfied flickered across his expression.

“I would’ve tested the locks,” he agreed, his voice low, lazy with certainty. “Would’ve mapped the exits, noted the guard rotations, checked for vulnerabilities…” He tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting. “But you didn’t find any, did you?”

Siobhan clenched her jaw. “Not yet.”

Daragh let out a quiet chuckle, something low and knowing, and it sent a shiver down her spine. She hated that she liked the sound. Hated that her panther stirred in response, a restless heat unfurling low in her belly.

He took a slow sip of his own coffee, his fingers wrapped around the heavy ceramic mug, completely at ease—completely in control—and it made her blood boil.

“You always this quiet in the mornings?” she asked, needing to push back, needing to break the thick charged silence between them before it swallowed her whole.

Daragh shrugged one broad shoulder. “Depends on the company.”

She rolled her eyes. “Charming.”

A slow, wicked glint entered his gaze. “I can be.”

Siobhan refused to acknowledge the way her pulse jumped, the way her body tightened at the suggestion in his tone. Instead, she pushed back her chair and stood, needing distance, needing air.

Daragh watched her every movement, his gaze tracking her like prey, and it made her want to snarl, want to run, want to fight—because it felt like he was toying with her. He didn’t see her as a threat. He saw her as his to claim, his to control, his to keep.

Siobhan took a slow breath, controlling the flicker of rage licking at the edges of her restraint.

She turned toward the door. “I’m going outside.”

Murphy shifted from his post, about to follow.

But before he could move, Daragh’s voice cut through the room, low and absolute.

“No.”

Siobhan froze. She turned back, arching an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Daragh didn’t repeat himself. He simply lifted his coffee to his lips, took a long, slow sip, and met her glare with one of his own—lazy, amused, and entirely unbothered.

“You don’t go outside unless I say so,” he said, matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather, as if her freedom was his to grant or deny on a whim.

Something inside her snapped.

She planted her hands on the table, leaning in. “And what exactly do you think I’m going to do, Daragh?”

His eyes darkened. “Run.”

Siobhan held his gaze. “Maybe I just want fresh air.”

Daragh set his mug down with a slow, deliberate movement, then pushed to his feet. Every inch of him radiated dominance, certainty, control. He stepped around the table, closing the space between them in two easy strides.

Siobhan stood her ground, even when he stopped just shy of touching her, his presence looming, pressing, suffocating.

Daragh reached out, trailing the edge of his knuckles along the line of the iron collar still locked around her throat. Her breath hitched, fury warring with something hotter, something she wasn’t ready to name.

“You want fresh air?” he murmured, his voice dangerously soft.

Siobhan refused to react, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his touch sent a shudder down her spine. Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting his challenge. “Yes.”

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