Enamoured (The Enslaved Duet 2)

When I looked up into his eyes, he was watching me with that steady, possessive regard he’d mastered.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I breathed.

I was thrilled he was there to ask the question and terrified of the answer.

“You know, polyandry is illegal both here in the United States and in Britain,” he said almost conversationally, but each word bit into me with vicious teeth. “Does this Mr. Matlock you plan on marrying know that he is about to commit a felony?”

Anger crashed into me so brutally, so completely that I felt suffocated by it. I was consumed by a wall of fire, the flames eating every ounce of oxygen from the air before I could drag any into my lungs. Black spots popped through my vision, and I swayed in Alexander’s firm hold as I tried to get a grip on the utter devastation of my own humiliation and fury.

“Are you,” I said slowly, focusing on the formation of each word so that I wouldn’t scream. “Are you seriously here in New York, seeking me out after you made it painfully clear you never wanted to see me again…after years of radio silence…to threaten me?”

His hands flexed against me, my body tugged forward until it was plastered thigh to thigh and chest to chest against his own. I could feel the magnetic thump of his heart against my cheek before I wrenched myself as far out of his hold as he would allow.

“You are not the master of your fate,” he reminded me with glacial eyes. “I am.”

“Not for over three bloody years,” I countered, whisper-yelling so that the glistening couples spinning like metallic tops around us wouldn’t be privy to my personal hell.

“Since you saved my life on that godforsaken day in Milan, and I felt you just like this pressed to me as I pressed you to a wall, you’ve been mine. Whether or not you knew it. Whether or not you like it.”

“Fuck you, Lord Thornton,” I spat at him. “I’ve lived my own life, and I’ve made a success of it without you.”

“You have not,” he said, his words a sexual, sinister hiss. “I sent Willa Percy to you that wet day in Milan. I forced Jensen Brask to take you on as the new face of St. Aubyn when the beautiful Jenna Whitley was already signed to the task. I made sure the Order had no reason to stalk you longer than was necessary to prove you were nothing to me. I kept you safe every single one of the one thousand two hundred and eighty days we were apart.”

He hauled me closer still, his hand sliding down my spine to press intimately into my lower back, his face coming within an inch of my own so I could feel his hot breath on my lips.

“There has not been one single minute since you ran away from me at our wedding that I have not sought you out and cared for you from afar. Everything you have done is because I bloody well willed it. And now I discover you mean to marry another man?” His mouth pressed hard to mine, stamping them in a way that would leave the bruise of his possession on my lips for everyone to see. I fought the urge to lick open the seam of his lips and taste the ambrosia I knew I would find on his tongue. “I will not allow that.”

“You have no right,” I said too loudly, my voice crackling with the fire I felt eating at my heart. “You have no fucking right to come here and say these things. You were the one who told me there was no place for me in your life!”

“I told you once before, my beauty,” he sneered. “Even a predator is prey to something. I had things to take care of before I could reclaim you, but now you’ve forced my hand. I will not have you with another man. Not even if my body was cold and dead in the ground would you belong to someone other than me.”

Rage built in my chest, the smoke of it robbing my voice of any power as I said, “I hate you, Xan. I fucking hate you.”

“Since when have I cared about your feelings, topolina? I’ll have you either way.”

The crack of my hand across his face cut through the smooth, emotive music and quiet conversation in the hall. Pain exploded in my palm, igniting the bonfire of hurt and horror that lay like dry kindling where my heart should have been.

He turned his head slowly from where the force of my blow had bowed it, his silver eyes blade cold. Then his hand snapped out and wrapped tightly around my throat, his thumb digging into the brutal beat of my pulse.