Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,63
hot as the sun ready to burn me alive.
All that in a look—in his eyes and nowhere else. Because he might have gripped me tight, yanked me flush against him, soft lines colliding furiously with a wall of unyielding muscle—but he did all that with restraint, his body stiff…
Like he was fighting me.
The fireworks suddenly sparked lower, pinwheeling in my belly, exploding between my thighs, and my eyes fluttered shut to block out the gold, to stop staring directly at the beast, challenging the dragon—
“Hey, idiots.”
We sprang apart just as Jensen rounded the corner, stalking into the bakery’s depths for what seemed like the first time based on his darting, curious gaze. Phone in one hand, his free one fidgeted with his belt, the warlock’s mouth twisted in a grimace. Did he suspect anything? I mean, Elijah just stood there like a giant tree, stiff and glaring at the floor, fists at his side. Meanwhile, there was me, cheeks on fire, breath feathering in and out, struggling to keep it normal, to quiet my thundering heart.
“I need to, uh, use the facilities,” Jensen announced. Right—classic oblivious warlock moment. Thank the gods for small mercies. He picked at his belt again, almost dancing in place, and then under his breath muttered, “Fucking potluck breakfast…” As if realizing he’d said that out loud, he straightened and stopped fussing, shoulders back like he was a guard we ought to take seriously. “Can you hold down the fort for like twenty minutes?”
I just stared back at him, mind full of static.
At least Elijah managed to nod—to look somewhat present, if a little furious.
“Great.” Jensen tucked his phone into his uniform’s breast pocket, then tapped his wand like we’d forgotten all the guards carried one. “Don’t fuck this up, or you’re both in solitary for a week, comprendo?”
Yeesh. That was the most atrocious butchery of the Spanish language I’d ever heard, that Alabama drawl wrapping around the word in a way that was almost offensive. When neither of us responded, Jensen gave us a look like we were slow in the head, then tapped his ear, expecting a response.
“Yes,” Elijah rasped. Our phone-obsessed guard might not have realized it from the way he stalked—waddled—off, but I caught it, every damn decibel. The depth. The subtle roar. Gravel and woodsmoke and whiskey and oh no. Elijah sounded different—darker, more dangerous—and it made my body sing. Thrown by the reaction, by the sudden and intense desire throbbing through me, flooding my veins and demanding action, I pivoted on the spot and beelined toward our workstation. Just put the bread in the bags. Just get through the next six—ughhh—hours and use the humdrum, repetitive tasks like a cold shower.
Only I didn’t make it back to the table.
Relief sparked when Elijah caught me by the elbow. Need flared when he dragged me hard to the left. Resistance reared its ugly head, almost because it had to, when he hauled me toward the walk-in proofing pantry.
“Elijah,” I hissed, feet stuttering over stone. “Stop—”
“Shut up, Katja,” he growled in that voice, so unlike him—vaguely threatening and utterly wild. Why the hell did I find that so hot?
The shifter wrenched open the pantry door as he had a hundred times before over the last month, but this time it bounced off the wall, hurled with such force that I swore I heard something crack and splinter. He shoved me inside, forceful and infuriating in the way he manhandled me like a guard.
Only I didn’t want to cower like I did with the black-suited warlocks skulking around Xargi’s corridors. As I rounded in place, immediately assaulted by the pantry’s chill compared to the bakery inferno, I wanted to fight. Hit back. Shove him. Rake my nails up his chest—down his back. Nip at that tempting lower lip like it was mine.
A whoosh of hot air washed over me as Elijah dragged the pantry door shut, slamming it into place hard enough that the hinges whined. For a beat, he just stood there, back to me, shoulders rising and falling like he was chasing his breath, but when he turned, he stared me down with the eyes of the dragon. I swallowed hard, taking this brief pause for what it was: a chance to back out. To shatter this moment with a much-needed dose of reality. But my feet had grown roots, my knees had locked, and neither would budge.
Not until he grabbed me again, snapped that strong hand around my forearm and yanked