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But it’s not in my nature.
And now I know why.
I still don’t belong here.
“My family will be worried sick. I have to go home.”
Ryther tilts his head to one side.
Are you certain you wish to keep talking of your dear family with our entire audience, Ms. Thorn?
It’s his voice, and yet his mouth remained closed. He never said a word.
One of his eyebrows hikes up, crooked.
He’s talking directly to my mind. Holy shit, can hereadit?
I clamp my mouth shut, mostly because he’s absolutely right. I don’t want anyone here to know a thing about my family. Shit, I already said where I was from, at Valdred’s request. I thought we were alone.
The fact that he knows my name reminds me I mentioned it out loud back at the party. But I was talking to Valdred, not Ryther. How longwashe listening? Watching?
My jaw ticks. At least since the banquet. Which means he saw Valdred take me to the rut, at the very least. Was he there, watching while I was on my knees? If so, why did he only see fit to intervene later?
Before I can decide which question—or accusation—I want to fling at him first, the smug asshole steps into my space, his proximity robbing me of any words.
“What youhaveto do,” Ryther says, “is take a warm bath.”
And then we’ll talk privately about your many vulnerabilities,he adds soundlessly, the deep timbre filling my mind.
Suddenly, I remember how cold I feel; and I’m also completely drenched in lake water. Tiredness seeps into my bones, pulling me down.
I don’t trust myself. I don’t trusthimone bit. Is he casting a spell on me?
But the words “warm bath” seem oh so beautiful. I want it.
His eyes dip down, taking me in. I want that too. All the dark, sensuous, forbidden promises whispered by the depth of his voice and the curve of his smirk.
It must be a spell. An enchantment, placed on anyone who looks at him for too long. I force myself to avert my gaze.
Oh. One glance at myself and I wrinkle my nose. I forgot about this stupid “dress.” No wonder he’s smirking.
“Maybe we can also see about a change of clothes.” Those eerie eyes rake over the meager, drenched fabric barely covering me. The asshole is thoroughly entertained. “I don’t think pink is your color.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE LEAST TERRIBLE CHOICE
Darina
I hesitate.
I know I don’t have a choice, and yet, I can’t make my feet move from where they’re planted on the crunching, frozen grass by the lake.
There’s something wrong with that man. He’s too cold. Too immutable, as if every single one of his features were carefully crafted in marble, and the slightest change in them might crack the stone. His expression is artfully studied. Not too harsh. Not too kind. A master in the art of making everyone feel exactly how he wants them to. Right now, he wants me to trust him. That makes me itch to run in the opposite direction.
Most of all, I hesitate because I want to follow him. I’m desperate to. Not just for safety, either. Even after the last couple of days, or maybe because of them, I want a taste of him. One would think being forced would simply remove any vestige of desire from my mind, but instead, I’m desperate to touch someone I want to touch, on my terms, by my choice.
But all these instincts are pulling me in too many directions, fighting each other.
