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“Say that again.”
She shook her head in confusion. “Say what again?”
“My name. I like the sound of it on your lips.”
A soft smile. “Pierce.”
“Now let me taste it.” He lowered his head, brushing his mouth back and forth across hers. “Say it now, when I can feel it, savor it, breathe it.”
“Pierce.”
It was an exquisite whisper of sound, and Pierce drank it in, deepening and lengthening the kiss until Daphne pulled away, breathless.
“You’re impossible,” she informed him.
“And you’re intoxicating.”
Their gazes locked.
“Ask,” he murmured.
“Your interest in me, is it because of your dealings with my father?”
Pierce’s expression hardened. “No. It’s despite my dealings with your father.”
“You hate him. I saw it in your eyes during the race, and I see it again now. Why?”
“Many reasons. None of which I’m prepared to discuss yet.”
“Is his title one of those reasons?”
A muscle worked in Pierce’s jaw. “I have little use for the noble class.”
“I was born of that class,” Daphne reminded him.
“Born of it, yes. A part of it, no.”
“Pierce,” she said softly, her delicate brows knit with concern. “Father despises you. I can feel it when he speaks of you.”
“I don’t doubt it. Tell me, what does the marquis say about me?”
Chewing her lip, Daphne hesitated.
“He calls me a gutter rat, a lowlife, and a bastard,” Pierce supplied.
“I don’t believe—”
“You should. Every word of it is true. I grew up in the streets and I haven’t the faintest idea who sired me.”
To Pierce’s amazement, Daphne stood on tiptoe, clasping his forearms and brushing her lips to his chin. “The loss is your father’s then. He has no idea what a fine son he’s produced.” A shadow crossed her face. “Moreover, your sire, whoever he is, could be no less admirable than mine. Trust me, don’t underestimate the consequences of Father’s rage. Be careful.”
Pierce could scarcely speak past the constriction in his chest. Not only was Daphne accepting him without question or censure, but she was trying to shield him from harm. When was the last time anyone had worried for his safety?
“Your father can’t hurt me, sweetheart,” Pierce managed in a raw tone, threading his fingers through Daphne’s hair. “But thank you for warning me. And for caring.”
“You don’t understand. Father can be violent when provoked.”
Pierce went deathly still, his hands tightening in her hair. “Has he ever been violent with you?”
