Page 31 of Their Arrangement
Smooth.
Cool.
Like silk soaked in blood.
My pulse thrummed in my throat.
I didn’t hear the footsteps.
Didn’t sense the shift.
Not until I saw him.
Reflected in the mirror.
Royal.
He stood in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame. His arms crossed. Watching me like I was something unfolding just for him.
My breath caught.
But I didn’t lower the lipstick.
Didn’t cap it.
I just met his eyes in the mirror.
And he smiled.
Slow. Lazy. Sinful.
“Look at you,” he drawled. “Training yourself already.”
I swallowed. My hand dropped to my side.
The lipstick stayed uncapped.
Royal pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room with the kind of swagger that didn’t require effort. It was in his DNA. Coiled elegance. Expensive cruelty. Every part of him moved like it had been choreographed for a slower, more dangerous world.
His tie was half-undone. His shirt sleeves rolled up.
He didn’t stop until he was behind me.
So close I could feel the heat of him against my back.
He didn’t touch me.
Not at first.
He reached forward—slow, calculated—and brushed his knuckles across my cheekbone.
A feather-light graze.
“Little smudge,” he murmured.
His voice was velvet-wrapped violence.
I couldn’t breathe.
