Page 84 of Desperate People

Not even a little.

He stands with that quiet confidence he always carries, shoulders squared, the open collar of his dress shirt showing just the edge of a tattoo near his collarbone.

His mismatched eyes glint under the lights—one a deep, glittering green, the other sharp, stormy brownish-gray.

Like nothing I’ve ever seen.

He has a tattoo on his cheek, some ancient rune or character—and I don’t know what it means, but it’s hot.

So hot.

More tattoos cover his body, his neck, his hands—I want to memorize them all.

His mouth is curved ever so slightly, like he’s humoring them more than anything else.

God.

He looks good.

Devastating, really.

All broad shoulders and dark edges wrapped around something infinitely more dangerous—restraint.

Control.

Balor Cruz is not a man who blusters or shouts. He doesn’t showboat or posture.

He’s the opposite of the men I grew up around—loud, boisterous, commanding attention in every room.

Balor is quiet. Watchful. Contained.

And I want so badly to reach him.

Not just physically—though, yes, my fingers ache to slide under that shirt and trace the lines of ink across his skin—but emotionally. Spiritually.

I want to dig underneath all that silence and stillness and figure out what makes him tick.

What makes him burn?

What makes him stay?

“Hey, Diamond Girl,” a familiar voice chirps from behind me.

I turn, startled, to find Cora slipping through the edge of the tent with two glasses of champagne in one hand and an evil little smirk on her face.

“What?” I gasp, laughing a little.

“Don’t act like your sexy as fuck husband doesn’t call you that. Hot, by the way.”

I giggle. And snort.

Don’t be jealous of how cool I am.

She’s wearing the glitzy bridesmaid gown she and the cousins picked out in a rainbow of jewel-toned colors.

This one is gold. Her favorite color.

High heels, glossy curls, eyes lined in dark kohl and humor.

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