Page 80 of Storm of Shadows
He’s a shadow weaver. My enemy.
Clearly, something is clouding my judgment and warping my mind.
I snatch my hands away.
A mirror hangs above the chest of drawers. I catch sight of my reflection. My cheeks are flaming.
What am I doing?
Dray is the pervert, not me.
I slam the drawer shut, spin around and walk towards the study.
I never make it that far though, because blocking my path is Beaufort Lincoln himself.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Briony
“I … I … I …”
I don’t know what the fuck to say. I wasn’t expecting them home for hours.
I was not expecting to be caught snooping.
I was not expecting to be caught snooping in hisunderweardrawer.
“Did you find anything of interest in those drawers?”
“I … no … there …”
“Are you looking for something?”
“Can I go now?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
He tips his head to one side, considering me. “Are you stealing from us?”
“Oh, because I’m from Slate Quarter, I’d have to be a thief,” I spit.
“You’re the one rummaging through my drawers.” He crooks his finger towards me. “Come here, little thrall.”
I snort. “Err, no.”
“Come here and tell me what you’ve been doing in my room.”
I adopt that bored, vacant expression I’ve perfected, and he huffs and stamps towards me, stopping mere inches from my face. His proximity is intimidating – not just his size, but the way his magic pulsates around him in the air. And then there are his eyes. That strange silver color – mesmerizing like a snake’s. Is that why I shiver when he leans in closer?
It must be, right? Because I can’t possibly be turned on by him. Him, a shadow weaver?
He’s close enough for me to see the bruise blooming across his left cheek bone, the split on his lip, and, as he lifts his hand to slide his fingers around the back of my neck, the grazes on his knuckle.
“Hmmm,” he murmurs, his voice low and deep. “I like you in my room.”
“Wh-what happened to you?” I say, trying to ignore how good his hand feels gripping my neck. Trying to dismiss the way my heart is pounding in my ears, making me dizzy. Maybe there was some kind of potion in that mousse, because my body is not reacting the way it should.
I hate this man. I hate what his people did to my sister. And yet, the way he cups the back of my neck makes my knees weaken.
“Nothing,” he says dismissively, those silver eyes glittering.
