Page 64 of Pretty Little Threats

His mouth brushes over my ear, right as one hand drifts up to clutch my throat. “Who are you?”

Throat bobbing against his palm as I swallow, I shake my head and remind myself not to give in to his games. “That’s a silly question.”

The warm chuckle against my cheek distracts me from my racing thoughts. “You’re mine, Rose.”

Like hell. “I’m not?—”

“You’remy wife. Not Rose Miller. Not Ms. Miller. You’reMrs. Richardson. Don’t forget what that means.”

Lines cut across my forehead, but before I can dissect his words, Dare steps back, leaving me bereft for his touch. The doors glide open. Ryan, the receptionist, glances up, eyes widening when he spots who I’ve brought with me.

His momentary distraction buys me time to clear myexpression. Rolling my shoulders, I smile and stride out of the elevator, stopping in front of Ryan’s desk.

“Morning. Will you let my dad know we’re here?” There’s no scheduled meeting, but I’m hoping Ryan is smart enough to know I’m trying to give Dad a heads-up.

Ryan glances at his monitor, narrows his eyes, then nods. “Of course, Ms. Miller.”

Dare pointedly clears his throat.

I whirl and grab his hand, dragging him away from the receptionist before he can demand that he call me Mrs. Richardson. Fucking men. Once we’re far enough away, I drop his wrist, but Dare doesn’t miss a beat. He matches me stride for stride.

“Can’t keep your hands off me?” he asks.

“If you wake up one morning without your tongue, don’t be surprised.”

Dare laughs—like he thinks I’m joking, when I’m already planning how to do it.

I glare at him.

His lips press into a wider grin. I almost trip, but years of practice in heels and Dare’s hand on my waist keep me steady. That smile is disarming. Beautiful. Dangerous.

“I like it when you threaten me.”

What? Is he insane?

“Rosalynn!” Dad’s sharp voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

Flinching, I instantly side-step, forcing Dare’s fingers to slip off my body. The beast practically snarls.

My gaze zips to Dad standing in the doorway of his office, face tomato red, eyes alight with anger I haven’t seen in years. The few employees scurrying about make themselves scarce. Only Dare remains at my side, his jaw clenched tight and fists lockedat his sides.

Great. I’m surrounded by angry men. Is this my destiny? To ping-pong between men and their egos? Surely not.

Striding ahead of myhusband, I stop in front of my dad. “Let’s talk in your office.”

“Why is he here?” Dad’s voice is so loud, he’s practically shouting. He’s making a scene. Joseph Miller doesn’t do drama, which means he’s really mad.

My chest is so tight, it feels like it’s about to crack. “Dad.” I place my hand on his arm. The smooth material of his suit is soft against my palm, and the diamond on my ring finger glitters back at me. My heart sinks.

Dad’s eyes drop to the offending jewelry, his lip curling and his grip on the door handle tightening. “Explain.”

“Let’s discuss this in your office.” I gesture around, hoping his pride will get the better of him.

Dad clicks his teeth but ultimately storms toward his desk, turning so roughly, the door swings closed. It nearly hits me, but Dare’s palm slaps against the heavy wood before the door can plow into me, the tattoos on the back of his hand stopping mere centimeters from my face. I don’t think too hard about whether Dad did that on purpose.

Dare’s chest brushes against my back.

Contrary as it is, the touch gives me strength. I walk into the office as if it were any other Monday. Dare follows, gently closing the door. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I swear the soft snick is almost a reprimand. A warning for my father.

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