Page 48 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

I should protest. Question why he feels the need to be in control of everything. But I don’t. Because truthfully?

I don’t want to be anywhere but by his side.

As I settle into the seat, he shuts the door with a quiet finality before rounding the car and slipping behind the wheel. The space between us feels smaller than it is.

The scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, the memory of his hands on my skin—it’s too much, too close.

He starts the engine, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. I can sense the strain in his grip, as if letting go would mean losing control entirely.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs as we pull out onto the road.

I glance at him, studying his face, the way the streetlights cast shadows over his features. He looks tired.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I say finally.

His fingers twitch against the wheel, but his expression doesn’t change. “I’ve been busy.”

I swallow the disappointment that tries to creep in. Of course.

“And now?”

He turns his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet mine. They’re unreadable, dark, but I see something simmering beneath the surface.

“Now,” he says, voice low, “I’m right here.”

The words make my heart stutter.

A thick silence settles between us, the only sound the quiet hum of the engine as we drive through the darkened streets. The city glows in the distance, lights dancing against the horizon like tiny embers, but I barely see it.

All I can focus on is him.

The tension in his jaw, the way his grip tightens around the wheel, the quiet way his breathing has changed—shallower, uneven.

I swallow hard, trying to ground myself, but it’s impossible. Not when his presence is so intoxicating. Not when the air between us feels so thick, so heavy, so charged.

And then, he speaks.

“If I had seen you before tonight…” His voice is rough.

I glance at him, pulse kicking up at the way he looks straight ahead, as if forcing himself not to turn toward me. As if he can’t risk looking at me.

He exhales sharply, like he’s struggling to find the right words.

"I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself," he finally says.

Heat floods through me at the rawness of the confession. He’s saying it like it’s a warning, like he’s barely keeping himself in check now.

The thought thrills me, unsettles me.

My fingers tighten against my lap. “Maybe…” I take a breath. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

That gets his attention.

His head snaps toward me, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a sharp intensity that steals my breath.

For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches me with stoic demeanor. But his eyes tell a different story.

They glance down—to my parted lips, to the quick rise and fall of my chest, then lower, lingering on the curve of my dress. His grip on the steering wheel causes the leather beneath his fingers to creak.

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