Page 45 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“What were ye doin’ outside yer rooms without me?” he growled.
Abigail flushed, both from the heat of his anger and disappointment. “I was out on a walk with Helena,” she replied evenly, lifting her chin. “Ye never told me I couldnae do that.”
She scolded herself inwardly. She’d forgotten, even just for a moment, that she was a prisoner here.
This man only wants to use ye. Dinnae fall for his possessive words, Abigail.
Kian stepped closer, his broad shoulders tensing. “Ye arenae to go anywhere without me, bunny. Do ye understand?”
“I may be yer prisoner,” Abigail snapped, “but I’m nae yers to command, Laird McKenna.”
“Oh, but this is where ye’re mistaken, lass.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous rumble. “While ye’re in me castle, ye are mine. And if ye dinnae obey me, ye will be punished.”
Abigail straightened her back and shot him a cold look. “I will never obey ye. Ye arenae and will never be me laird.”
His eyebrows rose. “We’ll see about that.”
There was a pause.
Silence pulsed between them, thick with heat and something else she didn’t dare name. Then, without warning, Kian closed the distance between them in two strides and cupped her face in both hands.
His mouth crashed down onto hers.
Abigail gasped, shocked by the hunger in his kiss, then cursed herself for not pulling away. Her fingers curled instinctively into his shirt, gripping it tightly. Her lips moved against his before her mind caught up with her body’s betrayal.
She hated him. She did. But oh, her body hadn’t gotten the message.
The kiss deepened, fierce and claiming. It was like being swept under a tide—helpless, breathless, and too overwhelmed to fight. Her knees buckled, and she leaned into him, clinging to his strong chest.
When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his good eye dark and unreadable.
Abigail was trembling, her chest heaving. She hated how much she wanted more.
“That’s why ye must stay close,” he murmured against her lips. “Because if anythin’ happens to ye, lass… I’ll tear the bloody world apart.”
She turned her face, breaking eye contact, her cheeks red. “Ye cannae just kiss me when ye’re angry.”
He tilted his head. “Seems the only time ye listen is when I do.”
She swallowed hard, her voice faltering. “Ye dinnae own me, Kian.”
“Nay,” he agreed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I will. One day, ye’ll nae want to leave.”
Abigail pulled back then, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t answer him. She couldn’t.
Because deep down, a traitorous part of her feared he might be right.
“Do ye want me to stop, bunny? Or do ye want more?” he groaned.
Once again, she didn’t answer. Her chest heaved against her tight corset, making her bosom practically spill out. His eye flicked to her cleavage as though it answered for her.
His lips were back on hers before she could form a proper thought, stealing her breath and replacing it with something else—heat, longing, something dangerous and heady.
Abigail should have pushed him away. She should have slapped him, screamed, anything to stop the madness curling in her belly. Instead, her fingers tightened on his shirt, holding him close as if she’d drown without him.
His hand moved, strong and assured, sliding down her waist with maddening slowness. Her breath hitched as he traced her side, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric of her gown.
Everywhere he touched burned with awareness, her senses overwhelmed by the smell of him—smoke, leather, and wild wind.
