Page 92 of Pretty Little Threats

I don’t expect him to throw his head back and laugh, a full, delightfully deep sound that draws me closer. I stop myself before Dare can realize the pull he has over me.

“Oh, Rose,” he says, voice a little throaty and strained. “The way you torture me is unlike anything I’ve ever known.”

It’s inexplicable, but that confession warms my chest. “What are wives for, if not to drive their husbands mad?” Our eyes lock and something almost tender passes between us.

Dare grabs my forearm and draws me closer, and I go willingly, tired of fighting what my body wants. “You almost said you were my wife.”

“You have a strange obsession with that word.”

He smirks. “Mmm, perhaps.” Toying with a strand of my hair, he searches my face, his lips parting to ask a question, but before he can, the elevator dings and the doors sweep open. The roar of music and chatter cuts between us, breaking the moment.

Dare steps away. “Ready to party?”

“Who are we here to win over?” I ask as we make our way up to the check-in.

Dare gives me a look. “What?”

That’s how he wants to play it, huh?

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me there isn’t someone here you’re trying to win over.”

“Rose. It’s a party.”

I take a breath and force my jaw to relax. “I know that.”

Dare studies me for a moment, then curses, muttering something about my dad under his breath.

“Checking in?”

Dare nods. “Dare and Rose Richardson.”

“Richardson, Richardson, oh! There you are.” The bubbly young attendant grins at the both of us, despite how uncomfortable her starched uniform looks. “Have a wonderful time. The bar is free. The DJ is the best in the city. Oh, and there are snacks floating around somewhere.”

Dare grabs my wrist and drags me toward the party.

“Thank you,” I murmur to the attendant as we pass.

Dare doesn’t stop until we’re at the bar. His jaw is clenched tight as he waits for the bartender to notice him. Something in the last few minutes set him off.

“I’m sorry?—”

“Why are you apologizing?” he demands.

“Because you’re mad?”

Dare’s eyebrows are drawn down hard, and the one with the scar appears especially incensed. “I’m not.”

I scoff and reach up to smooth my hand over the scar.

He catches my wrist, but his grip is soft, gaze questioning.

My throat tightens. “You’re upset. Tell me why.”

“Bossy as always.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, annoyed that I expected him to tell me. These past few weeks have been confusing. We’ve learned so much about each other, and yet, maybe we know nothing at all. I tug on my wrist, but his hold is firm.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers. “Your dad, on the other hand.” Dare shakes hishead.

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