Page 112 of Desperate Crimes
Titan of industry.
Once upon a time he had a reputation that would curdle your blood.
The kind of man who once snapped his fingers and had empires toppled before the ink was dry on the contracts.
But to me?
He’s Dad.
And I’ve never seen him look like this.
Not even when I totaled the Jaguar in college.
Not even when Michaela told him she had married Liam O’Doyle.
So why is he so angry with me?
His jaw ticks.
His spine is a steel rod wrapped in fury.
He tosses the cut-crystal glass of whiskey onto a tray with a loud clink and starts moving—shoulders squared, eyes burning, rage given human form.
I can’t breathe.
My mother sees us, too.
She’s on the other side of the ballroom in a silver gown that probably cost more than my grad school tuition.
She lifts her skirt slightly and begins to walk, her expression unreadable.
Is she going towards me? To him? I don’t know.
Aunt Destiny, ever watchful, snaps her mouth shut, turns and says something sharply to Uncle Marat, who starts moving, too.
Michaela gasps—actually gasps—and Liam steadies her with a hand on her elbow, his knuckles white.
The entire room is moving now. Orbiting around us.
The gravity of this moment is inescapable.
But Nico?
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even adjust his jacket.
Instead, he releases my hand—and I almost stumble from the absence—only to slide his fingers up my arm.
Slow. Intentional. Possessive.
Until his hand wraps lightly, intimately, around the curve of my neck.
My eyes flutter. Shame and heat crash inside me in equal measure.
Now? Now he’s going to touch me like this?
In front of everyone?
And still, I don’t pull away.
