“N-nothing.”
“Not even me?”
Outrage surged inside her, but it was little match for the fire licking through her veins. She swallowed. “Zael, please…”
She hated how small and choked her denial sounded. His firm grasp on her arm and her gaze said he wasn’t buying it anyway.
Panic beat inside her rib cage like a trapped bird. She knew she could break loose from his hold if she tried. She was no mere mortal either. She had to be equal to him in terms of preternatural strength despite his larger size and muscular bulk. And while she didn’t actually think he would refuse to release her, she couldn’t summon the will to test him.
“When was the last time you let a man hold you?” he demanded softly. “How long has it been since you let a man make love to you?”
“That’s really none of your business.”
“Wrong.” His mouth curved, but that smile was anything but friendly. It was masculine and carnal, and it sent liquid heat curling through every fiber of her being. “You made it my business last night, Brynne. You kissed me like you needed it more than your next breath.”
She scoffed. “I was intoxicated, remember?”
“You’re not now, and I think you want it just as badly as you did last night. You want me. You want this, but you’re too hard-headed or terrified to admit it.”
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?”
Releasing her wrist to capture her face gently in his hands, he moved in close to her. Their bodies brushed against each other. His hard and demanding. Hers soft and yielding, melting under the heat of him.
Brynne parted her lips to say something—she didn’t know exactly what—nor did she get the chance.
“Oh,” a female voice blurted from behind them in the threshold. “Oh, shit! I’m so sorry.”
Carys wheeled around, giving them her back as if she’d just walked in on them both standing there naked.
Brynne winced. Had she arrived a few moments later, who knew what Carys might have seen. Who knew how far Brynne might have been tempted to let Zael go.
o;No? Then why are you acting like a jealous lov—” He drew back, a look of confusion on his face. “What do you think you saw between Dylan and me just now?”
“Nothing,” she denied, then doubled down on the lie. “I could not possibly care less what’s going on with you or any of the females you keep company with. I came in here to read and relax. Alone. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find somewhere else to do that now.”
She stepped around him, disgusted with herself for the bitter anger flooding her veins. She should be pleased he was directing his attention on another woman. She certainly had bigger things to worry about in her life than this male or anything he—
“Dylan is my daughter.”
Brynne’s feet stilled beneath her, two paces short of her escape. Slowly, she pivoted to face him again. “Your daughter?”
That explained the intimacy, the affection she saw in both of them. That explained Zael’s obvious tenderness toward the woman.
Brynne had no experience with parental bonds, or the skills to recognize them. She’d never had anything close to that in her life. Her own parents were unwilling laboratory prisoners forced together as part of a sick breeding experiment. She’d never seen either one of them, and both were long dead now.
According to Brynne’s research, the Breedmate who bore her had never escaped the lab. And while the Ancient who sired her and Tavia and all the rest of their dozens of half-sisters had eventually managed to break away from his captor some two decades ago, it was only to wreak havoc and cut a bloody swath across thousands of miles before being killed in a confrontation with the Order.
Brynne was little more than a genetic cocktail of monster and innocent—a fucked up mixture besides.
“I found out about Dylan when I came to meet with Lucan the first time,” Zael explained, his deep voice level and sincere. “She’s mated to one of the warriors, Rio. For more than twenty years she’s been a part of the Order’s family, but until last week I didn’t even know she existed.”
How stupid she felt now, how petty, for assuming the worst about him. Again. But why wouldn’t she? Zael seemed to take great pleasure in provoking her and then gloating over her reaction.
But he wasn’t needling her now. When he spoke, his tone had been solemn, edged with something that sounded unmistakably like regret.
“I met Dylan’s mother many years ago in Greece. I was passing through and she was on holiday from the States. She was also married. She wasn’t happy, but that doesn’t excuse the way I pursued her. We had a brief affair, then went our separate ways. I . . . never saw her again.”