Page 5 of A Forbidden Arrangement
Holy shit. A thrill sparks through me at just how much power the stranger at my back holds to have someone who’s clearly high in society cowering like a wounded animal. I should really be scared, but the way he’s using that power to back me up—to protect me—has a rush of my own strength flooding through me, a confidence I’d been lacking minutes before filling my chest with each breath of the sweet, smoky scent of cigars.
“What if I don’t want to forgive you?” It’s like a completely different person is speaking, one that I don’t recognize, but I like. One that I wish I could be.
The man droops, practically folding inward as he pleads. “I won’t do it again. I’ll never come here again. Just please. Please let me go.”
“What do you think?” A dark rumble, breath brushing my ear. “Should we let him go?”
Power surges through me like a shot of adrenaline. “I guess we wouldn’t want him smelling up the place.”
A deep chuckle vibrates against my spine. “You heard her. Get out.”
The man scurries away without looking back.
There’s a long pause, tension building, but the presence behind me doesn’t move, waiting. I turn, and my breath catches.
Holy. Freaking. Shit.
Piercing gray irises, rimmed in black. Sharp jaw. Dark hair swept back.
My thighs press together as heat swirls low in my stomach, and I swallow, my mouth dry, a thirst taking over my thoughts.
The way his lips tip up in a smirk, tongue running along his top teeth, tells me he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.
“Um…thank you,” I squeak out.
His gaze burns into mine, and my heart races as he focuses all of his attention on me, like I’m the only thing that matters in this room.
“He’s lucky I let him walk away.” A pause. Quiet, final. “It won’t happen again.”
Chapter 3
Xander
She twists in the chair,just enough to face me. The shift pulls a few strands of golden brown hair loose, sliding free to frame her cheek. Her gaze lifts, meeting mine for the first time, and it hits me like a gut punch. I fall into a pool of deep chocolate. The rest of the bar might as well not exist. The low hum of voices, the clink of glass, the muted bass under the music. It all fades until there is only her.
I take her in. The curve of her cheek down to her throat, slow enough to memorize the exact slope. Her skin looks soft, and I want to bruise it beneath my touch. That mouth…full, pink, the bottom lip just barely caught between her teeth as she looks at me tentatively. I want to free it. I want to feel it drag against mine.
Heat coils low in my gut, sharpened by the rage still simmering from watching that asshole try to touch her. My hands ache to break something. To break him. The only thing stopping me from dragging that asshole into the alley is the girl in front of me. She doesn’t even realize she has that kind of hold on me yet.
I stand close enough that I can watch the rise and fall of her breathing. Close enough to smell faint lavender beneath the sharper scent of liquor clinging to the air between us.
The small tremor in her fingers catches my attention, and I don’t know if I want to soothe it or feed it until she’s shaking for an entirely different reason.
There’s something painfully innocent in the way she looks at me. Not naïve, but unguarded. It makes my hands curl into fists at my sides. She has no idea how dangerous it is for her to look at me like that.
I’m the last thing she needs right now, but I am far too selfish to walk away.
I search her face for even the smallest sign she wants me gone. A flinch. A glance toward the door. Nothing. She just keeps holding my gaze, and it has me stepping in without thought, closing the distance an inch at a time.
There’s a faint rim of red around her eyes, the smudge of mascara under one. My stomach tightens, anger pulsing through me like a second heartbeat.
“Who the fuck made you cry?”
Her lips twitch like she might laugh, but the sound that escapes is empty, stripped of any warmth. I hate it. I want to know what her real laugh sounds like. I want to be the one to pull it from her until she forgets every reason she ever had to cry.
Her laugh dies fast, the corners of her mouth falling almost as soon as they lift. Tears pool on her bottom lashes, and I move before I can think. My hand comes up, palm cupping her cheek, thumb brushing away the dampness gathering there.
Her skin is warm under my touch, and my chest aches with the need to hold her until she lets me take every ounce of her hurt.
