Page 38

I cross to the dresser and lift my jacket. Eira watches me as I put it on, her curious attention moving over me, then grows measuring and wary.

Fond, perhaps? The possibility irritates me, but it warms me.

I choose not to examine either response.

‘You have Rowan upstairs,’ she says, carefully enough to make every instinct in me sharpen. ‘You could be getting answers from her instead of attending a gala.’

‘I intend to do both.’

‘Multitasking. Bold plan.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘I disapprove of most things before breakfast. This has been a long day. Don’t argue with the traumatised.’

My mouth curves. ‘Are you traumatised, little hunter?’

Her gaze holds mine for one loaded second. Then shifts away. Again. The door closing.

‘Mostly annoyed,’ she says.

Liar.

The unshared thought moves through me, dark and feral, and with it comes the brutal temptation to cross the space between us, take her chin in my hand and demand every hidden truth until she has nothing left to hide behind.

I do not move. That restraint costs more than it should. ‘I will summon Rowan after the gala,’ I say.

Eira looks back at me too quickly. ‘And until then?’

‘Until then, I am giving you the courtesy of telling me what you know before a witch pulls it from your blood.’

Her colour changes. Barely. But it’s enough.

‘Wow.’ Her smile arrives late and armed. ‘Romance isn’t dead. It’s just wearing Italian tailoring and threatening investigative bloodwork.’

‘If I wanted to threaten you, you would know.’

‘I do know. Frequently.’

I step closer. She holds her ground, because of course she does. Even when fear touches her pulse, Eira Cross plants her feet and sharpens her tongue.

‘That is the point I am making,’ I say softly. ‘I do not want to force this from you. I prefer you give it up willingly.’

Her throat moves.

My gaze drops to the small healing marks beneath her collar. And just like that my fangs ache and my cock hardens with such swift, savage interest that I almost laugh.

This strength is dangerous. This hunger, more so. When I lift my eyes, hers have darkened.

‘You’re growing on me,’ she says, as if the words escape before she can catch them.

I arch a brow. ‘Am I indeed?’

‘You’re not as fearsome as people piss themselves thinking you are.’

The casual insult should offend. Instead, it pleases me. ‘You’re not one of them, I hope.’

‘Absolutely not,’ she says immediately. ‘I stopped being afraid like that when—’ She cuts herself off.