ANNABETH SAINT
His hands stilled in mine. For a heartbeat—maybe two—Devon Thorne didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then his fingers tightened around mine, warm and firm, like he was afraid I'd slip away if he didn't hold on. His dark eyes searched mine, disbelieving.
"Annabeth." My name was rough on his lips, a scrape of sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "In the Thorne family there are only widows. No divorces."
"Oh. So you don't want to marry me." Disappointment filled my stomach. It felt like acid. It burned. I hadn't expected so much pain with rejection.
"That's not what I'm saying." A muscle in his jaw twitched. He inhaled sharply through his nose, like he was fighting for control of his emotions. "You don't marry a man like me on impulse."
"Who says it's impulse?"
