97

“What do you want to ask me, Emma?” He leans against the wall of the elevator and casually sprawls back, crossing a foot at the ankle over his other and perching his butt against the handrail. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at the floor. This is the Prince Carrero pose I’ve seen so many times before, relaxed, in his domain. I eye him up warily and sigh down my rejections to his manhandling.

“Ray Vanquis,” I utter quietly. He looks up, but I’m unable to meet his eyes. When I don’t say anything else, he stands upright and steps toward me.

“Has he contacted you?” his anger evident with each word. “What has he done? Has he hurt you?” His hand grabs my wrist, pulling me to him, harshly. There is a fire in his eyes, an instant rage almost boiling over. His body is hunched into me, as a sort of protective shield and his face is terrifying. Sharp angles and simmering fury.

“No,