Page 83 of The Hunted

He supposed she had, in a way.

Below him, Arelle’s hands circled around his wrist as he kept her pinned to the table. Those violet eyes of hers locked on his, and her lips spread in a wicked smile. As though she were pleased with herself.

Had she tried to make him react?

Did she like what she was getting?

It only served to piss him off even more because now that he was touching her, he didn’t want to stop. It was like the second he got too close, or his hands found any part of her body, he became drunk from it. He only needed more and more and more. He wanted to fuck her until all that fight was gone, and she was compliant and soft and perfect.

That wasn’t right.

Couldn’t be.

“What is this?”

He felt her swallow under his hand, the softness of her skin a match to the silk linen of her gown and the bow at her throat.

“Why do you make me behave like this?” he asked.

His questions landed with no impact.

She stayed quiet.

That only pissed him off more.

He’d moved closer until his lower half molded to the apex of her thighs. The skirts of her gown had risen up, but she didn’t seem the least bit ashamed about it. She had to know there were guards watching from the doorway.

Where was the dignity?

The respect?

Or did her kind just not care?

Because right now, he certainly didn’t … and wasn’t he a little bit like her, too?

“Well? Will you even speak?” Eryx asked.

“You don’t want me to.”

Her words were a whisper.

A weapon.

And a tease.

He let her go, stepping back all at once even though she didn’t right herself on the table straight away. Chewing on his inner cheek, his jaw clenching as he worked over what he wanted to say, he turned away from her.

“You’re free to look around,” he told her, never looking back, “but you’ll have guards on your person until your collar is ready.”

“Collar?”

Eryx didn’t bother to reply.

She’d learn soon enough.

It was only once he’d left the dining hall and traveled up to his bed chambers that he finally felt like he could breathe. As though a sense of relief waited for him there.

So did the maid who’d looked after Arelle earlier. She was just setting the cloak that belonged to Eryx—the one he’d dropped on the mermaid the day before to hide her nakedness from the men on the wharf—on the end of his bed.