Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
And then he does something unexpected, with Amos suddenly reaching across the space between us to place his hand over mine. "If you ever need someone to talk to—"
Devyn doesn't move.
He doesn't speak.
He doesn't even shift in his chair.
But his stillness changes. It goes from passive to active, from waiting to hunting. The air pressure in the room shifts, and every hair on my arms stands at attention.
Amos removes his hand.
Quickly. Like he's touched something that burned.
"I think," he says, and his voice has lost its smoothness, "that's enough for today. I'll be in touch if I have more questions."
He stands. Nods to Devyn. Glances at me one more time—and there it is, underneath the charm, a flash of calculation, cold and sharp as a blade—and then he's gone.
The door closes behind him.
I exhale.
"HE TOUCHED YOU."
We're alone now. The study is empty, the soldiers dismissed, the door locked. And Devyn is standing by the window with his back to me, every line of his body rigid.
The late afternoon light catches him in silhouette—broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the tension coiled in every muscle. If I had my camera, I'd frame him exactly like this. Backlit. Dramatic. A man carved from shadow and golden light.
"It was just my hand," I say. "He was trying to seem sympathetic."
"He touched you."
"Devyn—"
He turns. And the look on his face steals my breath.
Not anger. Not exactly. His eyes have gone dark, his jaw tight, his whole body coiled like he's barely keeping himself from going after Amos right now and doing exactly what he offered to do this morning.
Oh.
Oh my.
This is...I should not find this attractive. This is possessive and probably unhealthy and definitely not something a modern independent woman should encourage.
My pulse is racing anyway.
What is wrong with me?
"He touched," Devyn says, crossing the room in three strides, "what's mine."
He's in front of me now. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body, can see the tension in his jaw, can count the gold flecks in his irises if I wanted to.
I want to.
Stop it, Bailey.
"Possessive," I manage. My voice comes out breathier than I intended.
"Yes." No apology. No explanation. Just fact.
And then he kisses me.
Not gentle. Not patient. This kiss is claiming—his mouth on mine like a brand, his hand sliding into my hair to tilt my head exactly where he wants it. I make a sound against his lips, embarrassing and needy, and he swallows it like it belongs to him too.
Because it does.
Everything I am belongs to him now.
And the terrifying part is that I don't mind.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. His eyes are still dark, still intense, still burning.
"Next time," he says, voice rough, "he doesn't get to sit in the same room as you."
"That might be hard, given he's leading the investigation."
"I don't care."
"Devyn—"
"I don't care." His thumb traces my lower lip. "He looks at you like you're something he wants to take apart. Like you're a problem to be solved. And I don't share."
I remember the wedding. The dinner. His voice in my ear: I don't share.
Some things don't change.
"I don't want him," I say softly. "I don't want anyone except—"
I stop. Feel heat rush to my face.
His eyes sharpen. "Except?"
"You know."
"Say it."
"You're impossible."
"Say it, Bailey."
I'm blushing. I can feel it—the heat spreading across my cheeks, down my neck. And he's watching it happen with an intensity that makes my toes curl.
"You," I say, the word barely audible. "I don't want anyone except you. Obviously. As if that wasn't completely clear from the way I—mmph."
He's kissing me again.
I decide I don't mind being interrupted.
LATER, WHEN I'M ALONE in our chambers waiting for Devyn to finish whatever kingly business pulled him away, I curl up in the window seat with my phone.
Force of habit. My thumb hovers over the audiobook app—Olympus Bewitched, my old comfort, my door out when life gets too heavy.
But I'm smiling before I even open it.
Because I'm remembering breakfast yesterday. Devyn's jaw going tight when he saw the cover. Mr. Handsome, he'd repeated, like the words personally offended him. Book obsessions are unhealthy. You should find better coping mechanisms.
He was jealous.
Of a fictional character.
In an audiobook.
The memory makes something warm bloom in my chest. Devyn Chaleur, mafia king, legendary temper, a man who makes barons cry with a raised eyebrow—threatened by a character named Paul Theodore who exists only in narrated chapters and my imagination.
I used to dream about men like Paul. Patient. Gentle. The kind who'd never make a woman feel small. Safe, I'd thought. That's what I wanted. Someone safe.
But Devyn isn't safe.
Devyn is impatient and demanding and possessive and probably a little bit dangerous. He doesn't make me feel protected from the world.