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“Why?” he finally gritted through his teeth as though he loathed to release the word.
“You’re not the only one capable of games.”
“Meaning?” he barked.
“You know exactly what I mean,” I said, too soft, still unable to stare into those violent blue eyes.
My own glued to his clenching jaw, watched it spasm as he rolled his neck and grunted, “Fool.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me just fine.”
Simmering silence caged us, and we both remained focused on the clothing for taut minutes. Gold thread gleamed beneath our hands, shining brighter than any star. His hold so tense, his fingers twitched and squeezed mine.
I couldn’t stand it, hated that I couldn’t keep myself still, that I couldn’t keep enduring the quiet, the frustration, the ire. He’d murdered my father, so many of my people, destroyed towns and homes, yet I couldn’t keep my mouth shut nor make him leave. I loathed myself, loathed that he’d made that self-loathing worse. “It’s none of your concern.”
It was the wrong thing to say. For many reasons. The main one being that it propelled him into action. With a heart-quickening snarl, he launched to his knees. Clothing crushed beneath him, he gripped my cheeks in his hands. “None of my concern?”
His gaze held mine, searching and unblinking. “Dade,” I tried again, reaching up to wrap my hands over his. His head lowered, nostrils flaring, and then…
He kissed me.
Hard, possessive, erasing—his lips coaxed and claimed, and I tore at his hold on my face and shoved at his chest, slapping his hands away. “How dare you?”
His ragged breaths floated over my mouth. “Play what games you think you must, sunshine.” His face was void of anything welcoming, blank and ferociously cold. “But do not let him do that again.”
Then he was gone, leaving little more than half the clothing glittering with gold.