Page 46 of Outcast’s Vow

Then...

“Well, I am beautiful,” Sylvie replies, artfully raising her glass of red wine to her red lips. “It’s good to finally hear you say it, even if it takes the correct mood, with these stars and this candlelight and the snow-capped mountains in the distance, to say something sweet to me.”

I am, as ever, unfazed by her teasing sting.

“Is this you confessing you’re impressed at last?” I ask her, leaning forward.

I’ve gone casual for this dinner. Smart casual. My silk dress shirt is two buttons undone, so that my wife can peek at the tip of her name tattooed over my heart. My sleeves are rolled up. Black trousers.

I need nothing else.

Sylvie’s hazel eyes drag over the open V of my silk shirt and then snap back up. Like with her blushing, she’s trying hard to hide the effect I’m having on her.

“I like it,” she purrs, “and I like your compliment, and I like what you did today, but you will not catch me swooning for you anytime soon.”

“I wouldn’t dare suggest that for a millisecond.”

I enjoyed spoiling my wife today, especially since it made her so mad. I’m also trying to prove I own my control. I’m trying to prove I’m not owned by the Castaways. I’m doing this of my own free will.

She really does look beautiful.

“You’re staring at me that way again, Baptiste.”

I raise an eyebrow and lean forward.

“Which way?” I ask, lowering my voice.

“You know which way,” she replies. “The way that makes me blush.”

“I like to make you blush, wife. It’s a challenge, and I like a challenge.”

“I bet you do. You might actually make me think you’re human.”

I smile.

“The way you look tonight is making me think the same.”

“So, are you still rethinking catching me?” she asks. “Are you reconsidering marrying me?”

“I’ll keep you in the dark on that one,” I reply.

“You are so insufferable.”

“And you like it.”

Heat rises to her cheeks again. Yes, this is a kind of sick revenge on what she made me go through on our wedding night. And I am immensely enjoying it.

“Do you ever wonder what other people think of you?” Sylvie questions, eyes unmistakably drifting again over my open shirt. “Or are you just performing?”

Her glare makes my skin twinge with longing. I want that moment we shared in bed. When we were so close we breathed as one.

I want her. In my lap, on my mouth, under my hands.

“I like to perform. There are only a select few I give a damn about.”

“So, you just strut around and not let your precious ego get touched by what people think? Sounds exhausting.”

“Like I said, it depends on the person.”