Page 97 of Theirs to Hunt
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
No one said a word. Even Devon went still.
I took the cigar from her, clipped the end in one smooth snap, and struck the match.
Lit it slow, deliberately toasting it for her, holding her gaze the whole time.
"Careful, little fawn," I said, low enough only she could hear.
"You are not the only predator at this table."
She blew her first puff of smoke sideways, lips still curled.
Brooks’hand tightened on her thigh, he was trying to remind her who she was sitting on.
She already knew.
So did I.
She settled back into Brooks’ lap, pleased with herself, drawing on that cigar like she had done it a hundred times before.
Maybe she had.
Or maybe she was just a quick study, sharp enough to know the right way to tempt a man like me was to flirt with danger, not safety.
I watched the way her legs crossed over his. The way his hand slid absently along her thigh. Half possessive. Half reverent.
She did not correct him. Did not pull away.
She was not mine.
But she was not not mine either.
The smoke curled in my lungs, slow and bitter. I held it. Not for the flavor, but for the silence it gave me.
Silence to think.
Or try to.
Brooks said something, some offhand remark to Devon that earned a short laugh, but I did not hear it.
All I could hear was her voice again.
Can you circumcise this for me...
God, the way she said it.
Like she knew what she was doing.
Like she wanted me to lose the last thread of control I had been clutching since the tree.
And I was. Losing it. Piece by piece.
I came out here to steady myself. To draw the lines back in after letting them blur.
But now she was sitting six inches to my right, licking smoke from her lips, pretending she did not just tip my world on its axis with a joke about trimming a cigar.
And the worst part?
