Page 185 of The Poison Daughter
I reach for the letter, but Henry spins away from me. His eyes rapidly scan the page, and he dodges two more of my attempts to grab it. I trip on the hem of my dress and pitch toward the fire. Henry grabs me around the waist.
The scene plays out in slow motion: Henry releases the parchment to grab me. The letter flutters directly into the fire.
I stare at it in disbelief as Henry pulls me upright. He follows my gaze and curses.
The ink bubbles and the paper turns black. Just like that, the one piece of evidence we had is nothing but ashes.
Henry has been, at all times, annoyingly graceful for someone I expected to be a burly mountain oaf. But that was uncharacteristically clumsy. I try to contain my suspicion. For months I’ve believed that Rafe is the only viable option for Rochelli, but Henry snatching the note and fumbling it feels convenient.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap.
“With me?” He takes a step toward me, and I step back. “What’s wrong withyou? Going out with no glamour in that indecent dress and inviting a man to go upstairs with you. Interrogating him yourself? What if he had tried something?”
I glare at Henry. “He did try something, and oh—look at that. I’m fine and he’s tied to a chair.”
“I wasn’t actually going to do anything she didn’t want to do,” Shane interjects. “I just made some incorrect assumptions about why she brought me up here.”
Henry shoots a murderous look at Shane. “Oh, and what didyouthink, Harlow? How were you planning on getting information out of him?”
It would be wiser not to press him when he’s angry, but I’m angry too. “I was planning to do whatever it took to entice him.”
Henry grabs my arm and drags me toward the bed.
I grunt. “What are you?—”
He sits down and yanks me down on his lap, facing away from him. He hooks my legs outside of his and the slit in my dress rides up so high, my lace undergarments peek out. I try to pull my arms free, but Henry has them trapped behind my back, between our bodies.
Shane watches us, torn between curiosity and fear.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I squirm against Henry, but he has a firm grip on me.
He nips at my neck. “You wanted to play, little wife. I’m here to play your games.”
“I didn’t want to play withyou,” I snap.
“And that’s exactly why I’m here,” he growls. “You can play with me or not at all.”
I struggle against his hold, but he has my arms pinned tight.
Henry ignores my struggles as he brushes his nose up the column of my throat and pauses beside my ear. He trails his fingers up my leg and toys with the lace peeking out at my hip. “What color is this?”
“Bright red.”
He hums, and the vibration of it raises goosebumps on my skin. “What word do you say if you want me to stop?”
I shiver with anticipation. The ritual was one thing, but electing to let him touch me, maybe even fuck me, in front of a stranger fills me with a mixture of heat and anticipation. It’s less that I like that Shane is watching and more the possessive way Henry is touching me. Like he’s cursed by his desire.
“What do you say, Harlow?” he repeats.
This is the distraction I really needed. I’ve been so tense all day. If this game makes him want me more, that can only help this deviation from my original mission.
“Stars,” I say.
He nips at my earlobe. “Good girl.” His thumb gently strokes my inner thigh. “Do you have anything to say, lovely?”
I feel a mixture of shame and lust. I love and loathe that he’s making me admit that I want this. “No.”
Henry slides his hand up the slit of my dress, throws it open, and presses his legs out, wrenching mine even wider.
