Page 3 of Pretty Little Threats

There’s especially no sense in thinking about anything other than escape as his eyes narrow to sharp slits and he steps toward me. The ground doesn’t tremble, but my breathing does. Everything surrounding me fades away as I fall into his snare, facing him head-on, and even more concerning, alone.

Never show your fear, Rosalynn. We’re Millers, people fear us.

Dad’s reminder rings through my ears. Trying to steady my breath, I force myself to relax and carefully close my sketch pad, picking up my coffee and taking a drink. Pale yellow walls at my back and right side do nothing to block Darian prowling in my direction. The women—young and old, alike—pause to take him in, moths drawn to a flame.

It’s annoying that Darian is not just a deadly corporate menace but also hot as hell. Tattoos crawl up one lightly tanned forearm, bold sweeps of color that disappear beneath the fitted black T-shirt stretching tightly over hisbulging biceps.

His fierce steps eat up the distance between us.

My heart skitters in my chest, but years of learning to conceal my thoughts and emotions, to keep my dad and the board happy, have my lips firmly pressed into the faint hint of a smile.

Not too much, or they’ll never take you seriously.

Just enough that no one can accuse you of being a bitch.

The mask is so familiar, I can’t help wondering if I’ve forgotten what it’s like to simply be who I am. But I’m not just anyone. I’m Rose Miller, heir to JD Miller & Co. While there are a lot of wealthy families, five hold most of the power and money in NYC. The Miller family is one of them, and Darian is enemy number one.

Every nerve ending snaps with electricity as he approaches. My eyes never stray from his, something that only serves to place a hard line above his nose. Setting my cup down right as he stops beside my table, looming like a dark storm cloud, I arch an eyebrow.

“Darian.” I shouldn’t have come alone, but I was sure he’d be at the gym, like he always is at eight a.m. on a Friday. He’s wearing joggers and that T-shirt that molds to his body.So, he was on his way to work out, but somehow, he knew I was here.

My attention strays to Frank behind the counter. The stout man’s eyes flick between me and Darian, worry wrinkling his brow. He catches me watching him and scowls.He’s a baker and a snitch, go figure.

Slowly, I pull my focus from Frank and back to the man in front of me.

Darian could be carved out of stone—hard and unreadable, except for the faint flaring of his nostrils. His gaze drags across my face, razor sharp. “Rose.”

I’ve heard him speak before, always wondered how aman could have a voice so deep and rasping, but I’ve never heard him say my name. Something about the way it tumbles from his full lips, half growl, half warning—like he knows me, despite never having spoken to me outside of boardroom meetings—sends a flutter of excitement through my belly.

Tipping my head, I study him. “Hmm. Are we friends?”

“What?”

“Only friends call me Rose. It’s Rosalynn to you,Dare.” I use his nickname to piss him off.

He doesn’t correct me. Instead, he places his palms on the table and leans into my space. I’m sure he expects me to twist away from him. One of the many benefits of growing up with Joseph Miller for a dad was learning to stand my ground and hide my reactions.

Although Dare may be intimidating, in situations like this, I know how to play the game. Yes, my pulse is racing and trickles of fright are chilling my blood, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let him know that.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

My eyes drop to my sketch pad’s worn blue cover and the plate beside it that has remnants of golden flakes from my pastry covering it. “Breakfast.” Though not a complete lie, it’s also not the full truth.

Dare growls, a deep, throaty sound. “Don’t be a smartass.”

“But why would I stop when it makes you so mad?” I use my foot to push the chair across from me out. “Would you like to join me? Have a cuppa and tell me what this place means to you?”

He holds my gaze. Those dark brown irises pierce through mine. Up close, the touches of amber give the illusion of endless pools of darkness that I could fall into.Something tells me Dare would happily let me drown. I struggle to breathe as I stare right back. Something shifts in his eyes, almost as though there really is a monster lurking beneath the surface, and the challenge I’m presenting has awakened it.

Taking the seat I offered, he grabs my sketch pad. My stomach drops. I don’t like sharing my work with anyone, not after Dad laughed at mysilly little drawingsand told me to focus on the business. The last thing I want is for Dare to see my sketches and make fun of me.

When I reach to take it back, he tuts. “Journaling about how much you love your dad?”

Pursing my lips to keep from snapping, I grab for it again, but he leans back and opens it.

He studies the first page, which is a portrait I spent weeks perfecting. “Well, fuck, Rose, I didn’t take you for an artist.”

This is such an invasion of privacy. My hands shaking with rage, I tuck them under my legs and narrow my eyes at him. “Give it back,” I growl.

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