Page 77 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
Heat floods my chest, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
"Explain it to me, Asher. Explain why you think you get to decide who touches me."
He stalks closer, each footstep deliberate.
"I don't like seeing his hands on what's mine."
The possessive claim sends contradictory shocks through my system. Outrage and arousal battling for dominance.
"Oh, so I'm 'yours' now? When did I sign that contract?"
My sarcasm hits its mark. Something flickers across his features. Surprise, maybe even amusement, before the dangerous mask slides back into place.
"You want this," He grumbles in a voice so low that it sends tremors through my body.
He moves closer still, backing me toward the wall without touching me. His positioning is perfect, close enough to intimidate, far enough that I'd have to move toward him to initiate contact.
My back hits the cool surface.
"We slept together."
I try to keep my voice steady while my heart hammers in my ribs.
"That doesn't make me your property. This isn't the eighteen hundreds, and I'm not wearing your class ring."
"Your body knows what it wants." His voice drops lower, dangerous.
My traitorous heart speeds up. "But that doesn't give you the right to—"
"To what? To care that another man put his hands on you?" His words come out measured, controlled. "To want to break his fingers one by one for touching what's mine?"
The last word comes out as almost a growl.
"I make my own choices, Asher." I press my palms flat against the wall behind me, needing something solid.
"I decide who touches me."
His eyes narrow, tracking the movement of my hands like he's reading wind patterns.
"Your pulse is racing."
My breath catches. "That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point."
He leans closer, his breath warm against my face, smelling of mint and coffee.
"You're attracted to Jax."
"What? No, I—"
"Don't lie to me."
His voice cuts like a blade, calibrated for maximum impact.
"I saw how you looked at him. Analyzing. Assessing."
"I assess everyone! That's what I do! I notice patterns, details, connections—damn it, I counted forty-seven freckles on the barista's face yesterday. It doesn't mean I want to sleep with him!"
