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“No.”

“Because I have it.”

“I don't need to see it.”

“You seem like you need to see it.”

“I said no.”

My teeth grind. Then her scent changes.

Just a little. Cinnamon and honey—and something else.

Magic.

My Devil surges so violently my vision flashes red. Belinda's breath catches.

She looks down at her fingers. She looks surprised.

I follow her gaze. For half a second, something golden sparks across her skin. Then it's gone.

She stares at her hand. I stare at her.

Magic.

Cinnamon.

Honey.

No.

I refuse to let myself think it. Because hope is a dangerous fucking thing when you've spent years watching it die.

“Fine.”

She looks up. I take a breath. And that is a big mistake. Her scent floods me again.

“We'll see about that.”

She lifts her chin.

“Yes, Mr. Leeds.”

My gaze falls to her mouth.

“We will.”

I turn before I do something monumentally stupid.

Like touch her.

Taste her.

Or ask Grandmother if a promised can smell like cinnamon, honey, and the best fucking tomato you've ever eaten.

No. Belinda Ramos is not my promised.

She's a complication.