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Lyon watched as Alek removed the dome, then immediately replaced it. He turned to Kira. “You’re still not eating.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and Lyon could have sworn he saw her eyes flash through the video feed. “No, and I won’t be eating until he comes.”
“This won’t make him come,” Alek said. “It will only make him angry.”
“Good.” She looked up at the camera, and it felt like she was seeing him from the upstairs room, like she knew he was there. “Or maybe he’s just afraid. Is that it Lyonya? Are you afraid of your little wife?” She smirked. “Maybe you don’t trust yourself with me anymore.”
Maybe it was her goading of him. Or maybe it was her return to his full name. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was on his feet and stalking across the room before he was aware of making the decision to leave the desk.
By the time his feet hit the stairs, he was seeing red.
7
Kira only had a few seconds to feel satisfied by her rebellion. That was how long it took to hear footsteps thundering up the stairs on the other side of the door. She glanced at Alek and wondered if it was her imagination that he looked scared for her.
She didn’t care. She was tired of waiting. Tired of playing Lyon’s game.
The door flew open, and Lyon stepped into the room.
She was only dimly aware of Alek, edging toward the door, making a hasty exit and shutting it behind him.
She barely had time to stand as Lyon stalked toward her.
He hung over her like a storm cloud, filling the room, sucking out all the oxygen until she had to work to breathe.
The first coherent thought that came to her was that she’d made a mistake: refusing to eat, goading him into coming to her, thinking she had any power at all over the man who stared down at her with eyes of fire.
She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten how big he was, nearly a foot taller than her, tall enough that she had to tip her head to look up at him. His shoulders pulled at the seams of his tailored shirt, his biceps, as big as one of her thighs, straining the fabric.
But it was his face that captivated her, his jaw so sharp it could easily appear mean, his features so defined they might have been chiseled from stone by a Renaissance master.
It was a face that matched his essence: harsh and unforgiving. Except for his lips, which were so full she had a sudden memory of kissing him near the bridge in Brooklyn, his mouth supple, his tongue fevered and demanding as it parried with her own, his arms holding her tight against his body.
She was mortified to realize she was wet.
He grabbed her upper arm so hard she gasped. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he said. “Answer the question.”
This was not the Lyon who’d made her laugh in Lake George, the man who’d held her tenderly, stroking her hair back from her face and kissing her brow.
This was the Lyon she’d married, the man who used violence to get what he wanted, who used violence even when there might be another way to get what he wanted.
Who used violence because he enjoyed it.
She wrenched her arm away, was surprised when he allowed it. “What do you thinkyou’redoing? Kidnapping me, holding me prisoner in this… this… place!”
“I’m teaching my wife a lesson,” he said. “A lesson that is clearly overdue.”
She glared up at him. “And what lesson is that?”
“That I make the rules. And that means I decide when you leave. When you stay.”
“I am not your prisoner.” She felt foolish as soon as the words escaped her lips. At that moment, she was very much Lyon’s prisoner.
“You are my wife,” he said through gritted teeth. “Until you choose to honor that commitment — a commitment made with your father’s blessing — they are one and the same.”
