Eleanor bared her teeth.
She meant it to be a sneer, cold and cutting and aristocratic, the kind of look that had sent servants scurrying and lesser men retreating. Instead it came out raw, lips peeling back from teeth in something too close to a snarl.
"My husband trusts me in ways you will never even begin to comprehend," she said. "If he walked through that door I know what he will do and it doesn't involve having any filthy thought."
"And Ethan, my son—would tear you apart with his bare hands if he sees you this close to him. So it's you who should be more worried."
The threat should have sounded ridiculous. It didn't. It sounded like prophecy.
Devon's laughter ebbed into a slow, appreciative exhale that brushed her cheek.
His thumb then moved—just once—gliding along the sharp edge of her jaw in a single, languid stroke. The faint rasp of masculine skin against hers drowned out the distant murmur of the string quartet in the ballroom.
