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“She insisted we dance. It was out of my control.”
“You, the walker of worlds, the transporter of the dead to the Beyond, cannot control a little human girl.”
He squeezed our entwined fingers tighter. Possessively. “Are you so bothered?”
“No,” I said, ducking beneath his arm. And I was not bothered. I was positively feral, a cobra waiting to strike against an unexpected predator. If he looked into my eyes, he’d see the smoky black awaiting.
He lifted me in an elaborate hold, face as smug as I’d ever seen it. “I knew it. You desire my company.”
“I am forced into your company.”
The smug bravado disappeared. “You are not my hostage.”
I shimmied with the music. “No, but I might as well be.”
“Well, as a hostage, why would you care if I’ve had any lovers?”
“How many have you had? Since I shouldn’t care, it wouldn’t even affect me to know.”
He frowned. So did I. A ball had dropped in my stomach. I feared whatever number it was, it would be too high for me to handle. The lights above me flared with my unease. This was bad. My emotions were too high, and my dark magic was spiraling out of control.
“None, seraphim.”
None?
My lovers are few and far between.
I disregarded the excited little skip in my intestines. The entire room glowed brighter as my energy sparked every candle, light fixture, and phone in the room. We basked in the glow as the room illuminated. Several “oohs” and “ahhs” erupted from the crowd.
Flora smiled and waved, expertly taking credit. Good. It looked like she’d been running the show, and not that I let my powers get the best of me.
I forced myself to abate. Demons were known to lie. What Reaper said might be fabricated. How did I know he wasn’t just telling me what I wanted to hear? The lights above dimmed back to a normal level.
“Your shadow control is all over the place,” Reaper observed.
“Don’t be rude,” I snapped back.
“Don’t be bratty. It was just a critique.”
“A critique.” My nose scrunched. “A critique? After you set your sights on me and locked me into a bond? After you’ve attempted my demise and shown up publicly with no regard for decorum?”
“You’re causing more of a scene than me,” he said.
Heads turned to witness our argument. I quieted my voice.
“Here’s a critique for you: you vex me.”
“You’ve been reading too many romance novels,” he said, swatting my nose. “And you vex me too, seraphim.”
Past him, the crowd watched us with hushed voices and intense stares. The level of attention made my insides squirm. The overall noise level had dissipated as onlookers listened in. Every House leader was staring, watching us interact. If they figured out who my dance partner was, I was done, and I’d never be able to recover.
I pressed off him. “I don’t want you here. I don’t care about you,” I burst out. “I can’t do this. Go away.”
Something akin to—hurt?—flashed across his handsome face.
“Do you want to know a critique you can never deny?” his gravelly voice asked.
“Last one, before I find some way to kick you out,” I said.
