Page 14

I blink something false at him, an innocent look that has his silent, smouldering gaze narrowing on me. And still, he doesn’t speak.

“I’m sure you will be wholly disappointed in my slavery.” I halt the sway of my hips and it takes some final swishes before the gown stops its rustling over the polished floor. “Of household skills, I have so few.”

I would say I have none at all, but sewing is a trick I picked up in my younger years, if only to save my favourite sweaters and skirts from a fate of being scraps and ribbons.

But all my defiant teasing is silenced the moment Daxeel moves.

Slowly, his hands slide onto the armrests. His gaze doesn’t waver from me, doesn’t unhook from mine, doesn’t dim in all its ferocity—he has me pinned in place with his gaze alone.

Daxeel presses his weight onto the arms of the chair. It creaks, but only a faint sound as he pushes up—and rises to his full height. An effective move, one that has me taking a step back.

He advances on me, as though I don’t gulp, as though I don’t stagger back a step, as though my nails don’t cut into my palms.

“Be still.”

The snapped command bolts me in place.

I stand, stiff.

He pauses, some steps distance between us, then he lingers his gaze over me. From the beaded toes of my slippers, up the poufy shape of my hips, along the corseted cinch of my waist—

My heart twists.

He examines me, inspects me like a fucking purchase.

My lip curls.

This is exactly how he wants me to feel.For sale.

And I can’t move.

Cold, I decide. He is cold.

The ice isn’t just in his gaze as he looks me over. It’s all around, in the air of the bedchamber, nipping at my flesh through the heat of the fireplace. The clash throws me into memories of fever.

Disturbed, my skin prickles.

I ache to fight his command, to lift my hand and flip him off. But no matter how hard I fight the stillness bolting me in place,

I just can’t move.

Harsher breaths start to rise and fall my chest.

His gaze lands the lift of my corset. He advances, his steps wandering and predatory. His mask sculpted from cool stone is unflinching.

Lazily, he reaches out a hand for the curve of my neck. His grip is loose as he holds me in place, then turns me around—prey into a trap—to face the dresser.

My gaze finds him in the mirror.

He doesn’t look at me.

Behind me, his eyes wander the ribbons and strings fastened at the rear of my corset, then over the poufy spill of my backside.

His grip tightens on the curve of my neck. Then he’s pushing me forward, against the dresser.

The bite of the wood digs into my middle. The bones of my hips hiss against the pressure, but I’m guided to lean over the side and flatten my hands on the cool touch of the blackwood.

Nose nearly touching the mirror, I keep my gaze upwards—and watch him.