Page 27 of His Scarlette Obsession
"What do you think?"
"What do I think?" I echo his words as I lift my gaze to his, and what I see in his eyes–
"I think..."
It makes me finally understand why playing with fire–
"I think it's possible you’re the one I’ve been waiting for all this time."
–can be so dangerously addictive, with how the words have Lykan's fingers weaving through my hair even when I haven’t finished speaking.
Oh!
My lips part in a silent gasp as his grip turns feral and possessive. There’s something unexpected in his expression—a flash of vulnerability beneath the hunger that makes my heart squeeze.
“If I am that,” he asks in a low, fierce tone, “what then? What will it change?”
“Everything,” I whisper.
“And how will you know if I am that?”
I don’t know.
His face lowers toward mine, and I can feel his breath against my lips. The entire room seems to fade away, the music dimming, the other dancers disappearing. There’s only Lykan, his dark eyes consuming me, his hands holding me like he’ll never let go.
And as his mouth hovers just a breath away from mine, my phone suddenly rings, the sound jarring in the intimate bubblewe’ve created. I unthinkingly pull it out from my pocket, and Lykan and I see the name on the screen at the same time.
Vaughn.
Lykan
The moment we step outside the ambassador’s residence, I pluck her phone from her clutch.
“Hey!” Scarlette reaches for it, but I’m already sliding the device into my jacket pocket, my other hand guiding her toward the waiting limousine.
“What are you doing?”
My lips only tighten in response. I don’t trust mysel to say a word, not with the memory of another man’s name on his phone still making me want to punch something to pieces. And when I remember the way her face paled as if I’ve caught her red-handed...
Damn her.
My driver opens the door, and I guide Scarlette inside with a firm hand at the small of her back. She stumbles slightly in her heels, and the sight of her struggling sends an unwelcome stab of something through my chest. Guilt, maybe. Or regret.
I ignore it.
The moment the door closes behind us, I hit the privacy button. The partition slides up with a soft mechanical hum, sealing us in our own private world. Scarlette has pressed herself against the far window, her red dress a splash of color against the black leather seats.
She looks small.
Fragile.
And guilty as hell.
“Why is he calling you?”
The question explodes from me before I can stop it, raw and demanding.
Scarlette shakes her head. “I don’t know—”
