Page 47 of The Forsaken

Kerr’s memory proved as stubborn as the flesh and blood version of him.

Muscles. Endless, breathtaking lines of them—hard, curved, and sharply defined. In her mind, she had drawn the mental map of him: powerful calves, thick thighs, and a massive, wide chest. But his stomach had been something else entirely. She never knew a man’s abdomen could feel as his did, every single muscle outlined with the exactness of a sculptor’s chisel. She had pressed herself against it all, felt every ridge all too clearly, and her body still tingled.

Andromena fanned hot cheeks with her book. It didn’t help.

Of course, in his arrogance, he’d rebuff the current fashion trend of puffing himself up and pinching his waist like other gentlemen—never mind that padding would have cushioned her as she came down on him.

Thank goodness for that. Had he folded her close in his enormous embrace and whispered soothing words into her ear, she’d be in real trouble.

Fortunately, he’d ruined all possibility of that doing what all men eventually did—he opened his mouth.

Liar. It wasn’t what he said, it had been what he didn’t say.

“…If you are so annoyed, then next time don’t come to my aid…?”

A fresh ache settled in her breast.

What was wrong with her that she should care either way? He was a swell-headed, bully who treated her with contempt. It didn’t matter how many times Andromena told herself that.

Because she knew him, and respected him.

She’d witnessed his clever wit years earlier, and been the recipient of his charm and engaging discourse. He made her laugh—or he used to.

He was steadfast and loyal to the ones whom he bestowed friendship upon.

The wounds he’d sustained in battle changed him, but was it towards all? Or only her? Because that would change things drastically. Then, it wouldn’t hurt so bad.

A north-facing shadow changed the room’s light. Frowning, she lifted her stare and froze. Her heart thudded at an increased rhythm. “You.”

At some point Edgar entered, closed the door, and rested his broad back against the heavy wood panel, moving with a surprising, quiet grace for a man of his size.

“Should I open a window, Miss Smith. You appear piqued.”

Which she was. Because of him. Oh, how the arrogant bounder would adore that.

Somehow, she kept her focus on her drawing. “I’m piqued at being interrupted, Lord Kerr.”

“Perhaps.” He moved into the room like the Pharaoh Seti, fresh out of his stone box in the corner, taking a slow, sharp look over the land he now owned. “But you were red-cheeked beforehand.”

A fresh rush of warmth found its way to her previously hurting heart, making her breath catch in her throat. “You must have been staring for some time to have noticed such detail.”

“I was watching you.”

Andromena’s head flew up, her eyes locking onto his with a sharp, sudden heat.

He didn’t look away; his shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “To determine if you had gotten yourself into another scrape, I had to help you out of.”

Her pencil snapped in half. Andromena looked at it regretfully. She always had an affinity for certain tools. Now she had another reason to hate Viscount Kerr.

She rose with grace, though it hardly mattered when he still towered over her. “I did not get myself into a scrape.”

Oh, how he would laugh if he ever learned the truth. To think she had actually yearned to confide in him. What would she even call this mess she found herself in?

Her pout came easily. “If it was such a bother coming to my aid, then you shouldn’t have.”

He fixed his amused gaze upon her. “In the future, if a carriage or horse is bounding toward you, Miss Smith, you have my word, I won’t interfere.”

“Yes, you’ve said as much!” She hated the sharp edge in her voice. She knew it betrayed her hurt, but she could no more stop it than she could have stopped that runaway carriage on the street. “You would just love it if I were run down.”