Page 9 of Stolen Faith

Izabel’s hand on his shoulder had him going still.

“Rowan.” Her voice was soft, but not unsure. Izabel radiated serious C.O./brass energy.

He turned and found both of them watching him.

Rowan waited, watching as Izabel quirked a brow.

Brennon’s lips twitched, and he broke the silence. “I was asking Izabel if she’d heard back from her friend Rose, and she said she hasn’t.”

“Do you think she’s in danger?” Rowan asked.

“Danger?” Izabel’s brows rose. “No, I don’t think she’s in danger. I think there’s some crisis either with her family or her family’s businesses.”

Shit, he’d made it weird by saying danger. Civilians didn’t immediately assume someone who was radio silent was in danger.

“Here, let me get you a drink.” Brennon came over to the bar. “Izabel is having a vodka Collins, though it’s way too cold for that.”

“It’s not even that cold,” she said with exaggerated exasperation.

“It is,” Brennon assured her. “It should be between sixty-five and eighty-five degrees year-round.”

“Hollywood, you’d never survive in Boston,” Izabel said, giving Brennon a nickname that proved how comfortable she already felt with their fiancé.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rowan saw Brennon wince. He must have felt Rowan looking because his…his fiancé…looked up.

Holy shit. That idea was terrifying.

How in the fuck was he going to be with these two people? Right now, there were times he could barely stand to be with himself.

“Whiskey?” Brennon asked him.

Rowan nodded.

“On the rocks? Splash of water?”

Rowan nodded again, watching as Brennon made their drinks. Now that he had ice, he made Izabel her vodka Collins first, passing the glass to Rowan.

He carefully handed it to Izabel and their fingers brushed.

He heard Izabel catch her breath. Her gaze was fastened on his hand, which still hung in the air.

Desire overrode his anxiety about the marriage. Rowan turned his hand, offering it palm up.

Izabel took a slow breath, then placed her fingers in his. He felt an almost electric thrill go through him when they touched, and he recalled the kiss they’d shared last night.

Need pounded through him, and he let it burn away his worry about the future. His fear that his new fiancés would ask him questions about who he was and what he was.

Rowan tugged Izabel toward him. She took two small steps, her skirts swishing around her legs. He let his gaze roam over her, from her gorgeous face, down all the pretty, soft skin exposed by the strapless dress, to the swell of her breasts. He settled his free hand on her hip. It was almost like they were going to start dancing, except that instead of guiding her into a dance spin, Rowan guided her to turn around, then pulled her back against his chest, both of his hands gripping her hips.

Brennon moved to face them, one glass in each hand. He held one out, and Rowan accepted it.

“A toast,” Brennon said.

“What are we toasting to?” Izabel’s voice was husky. Rowan’s cock reacted to the sound of it, and he shifted, not wanting her to feel his growing erection against her ass.

“To us, of course.” Brennon stepped closer, almost trapping Izabel between them.

“This is not how it’s going to be,” Izabel said, but there was no anger in her words.

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