Then those dark eyes lock onto mine.
Damn.
Her pupils shrink sharply, suspicion sharpening every feature. Breath catches, a soft tremble she quickly buries, but I caught it. Felt it. The heat beneath the fear, recognition darkening into a challenge.
She finally knows exactly who’s hunting her.
And then…
The mask snaps into place. Fast. Practiced. The heiress in her standing up tall, dragging the curtains closed behind those eyes like I haven’t already seen through the window.
But she’s too late.
I see the truth in the flicker. That unfiltered, naked pulse of want tangled with instinct.
She’s intrigued.
She’s terrified.
And she’s tempted as fuck.
Her instincts whisper run. But her body? That traitor leans forward, just a breath, just enough. The raw, feral part of her, the part her family tried to breed out, wants to know what it would feel like to burn.
I tilt my head.
Just slightly.
A nod to the seat beside me. No smile. No words. Just suggestion wrapped in cold authority. The kind of gesture that doesn’t say join me.
It says test me.
She falters.
Just a fraction of a heartbeat, barely there, but I catch it. That tiny slip in her rhythm, the breath she takes without knowing I’m counting.
In that single, silent second, she tells me everything.
I know exactly where the crack is.
Exactly where to press.
She lifts her chin, defiance carved from marble and silk, she smooths her blue dress like it's armor rather than the bait she knows damn well it is. Her shoulders square, elegant and defensive, she’s Creole royalty daring the world to touch what they can't afford.
She moves.
Straight toward me.
Measured. Calculated. Graceful as a ballerina crossing a stage rather than a queen approaching the executioner. But that’s exactly what she’s doing.
I lean back. Arms draped lazily over velvet, gaze dragging slowly up her body, stripping silk and secrets alike. I stare openly, shamelessly, like a predator savoring the twitch of wounded prey limping willingly into the open.
My mouth curves slightly just enough for her to notice.
It’s not a smile.
It’s a fucking warning.
This isn’t a conversation…it’s arson.
