The servant appeared looking confused. He was holding my plate of expensive, overpriced sea bass. He looked at the far end of the table, then at me, then at Darian.
"Move it," I said, my voice sharp. "I'm eating here."
The servant scrambled, scurrying to place the dish in front of me before disappearing as fast as he could. He probably didn't want to be in the room if something happened.
I picked up my fork and took a bite. It was delicious, but I didn't care. I was too busy feeling the heat radiating off the man next to me.
Darian finally turned his head but he didn't look at my face. He looked at the way I was holding my silverware. He looked at the way I chewed. He was observing me like I was a bug under a microscope, his eyes tracking every single movement of my hands.
Oh, so we're playing the observation game now?
I see you
I knew what he was doing. He was looking for a flaw, He was looking for the waitress or the poor girl so he could feel superior again. I decided to give him a show. I cut a piece of fish with slow, exaggerated precision. I lifted it to my mouth, my lips lingering on the tines of the fork for a second longer than necessary.
I felt his gaze burn into the side of my face.
He's spiraling, I thought. Good.
"Is something wrong with my technique, Mr. Volkov?" I asked, my voice as smooth as the wine. "Or are you just surprised I know which fork to use?"
"You're making a mess," he muttered. His voice was rough, like he'd been swallowing sand.
"A mess?" I laughed, a low, throaty sound. "I think the only mess in this room is inside your head, Darian. You can't decide if you want to fire me or pin me against this table."
Darian slammed his hand down on the mahogany. "Enough. You think you're so damn clever because you can provoke a reaction. You're a child."
"Then why are you still sitting here?" I countered.
I didn't wait for an answer. I let my left hand drop beneath the table. The move was bold,It was stupid,It was dangerous.
I rested my palm right on his thigh.
The muscle beneath his expensive suit trousers was like granite. I felt him jump..a sharp, violent flinch,but he didn't pull away. I let my fingers spread, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric and into my palm. I could feel the power in his leg, the raw, suppressed energy of a man who spent his life holding everything back.
The tension in the air didn't just rise; it literally snapped. It felt like the room was suddenly ten degrees hotter.
"Liora," he warned, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "Take your hand off me."
"Make me," I whispered. I didn't move my hand. I squeezed, my nails digging slightly into the hard muscle of his leg. I leaned closer to him, my shoulder rubbing against his. "You're always talking about what you own. You own the house. You own the contract. But right now? Your heart is beating so hard I can practically see it through your shirt. Who's in control now, Darian?"
He turned to me, his face inches from mine. His eyes were wild. The ice was gone, replaced by a dark, hungry fire that made my stomach do a slow, sick flip.
"You want to know who's in control?" he hissed. He reached out, his hand moving so fast I couldn't recoil. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. "You think a little skin and a few words make you the master here? You're a guest in my cage, Liora. And I'm the only thing keeping the wolves outside from tearing you apart."
"Maybe I like the wolves," I bit back, my breath hitching as his thumb brushed against my lower lip.
"Don't lie," he whispered. "You're terrified. And you should be."
He didn't let go. He stared at my mouth, his gaze heavy and desperate. For a second, I thought he was going to lean in and end the game right there. I wanted him to. I wanted to see if the Ice King tasted like fire.
The silence between us was heavy, filled with the sound of our ragged breathing and the ticking of a clock somewhere in the hall. It was messy. It was petty. It was exactly what I wanted.
I had upset his world. I had crawled under his skin and made a home there.
"You're a prick, Darian Volkov," I murmured, my hand still firm on his thigh.
"And you're a brat," he replied, his voice dropping to a rasp. "An infuriating brat."
He let go of my chin, but he didn't move away. We sat there, side by side at the head of a thirty-foot table, two enemies sharing a dinner that felt more like a war.
I took another sip of my wine, my hand still resting on his leg. I had achieved my goal. The mask was finally slipping.
