I swallowed hard. “What enemies?”
Roman laughed quietly then, but there was no humor in the sound.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured darkly, “you married one of the most dangerous men in America.”
The way he said sweetheart sent an unexpected shiver through me.
Not because it sounded affectionate.
Because it sounded possessive.
Roman took one slow step closer.
I instinctively moved backward.
The reaction visibly hit him.
For a fraction of a second, something painful crossed his face before disappearing behind control once more.
“You’re frightened of me,” he said quietly.
I forced myself to answer honestly.
“Yes.”
Roman looked at me for a long moment beneath the cold hallway lights. Then he lifted one hand slowly toward my face as though he intended to touch me, but stopped before his fingers reached my skin.
His jaw tightened.
“You should be,” he said softly.
Then, after a long silence that made my pulse pound harder against my ribs, his eyes darkened in a way I still could not understand.
“Because if anyone else had walked through that door tonight,” he murmured, “they wouldn’t have survived seeing what you saw.”
My breath caught.
Roman stared at me with an intensity that suddenly felt far more dangerous than anger.
And for the first time since becoming his wife, I realized something infinitely more terrifying than being hated by Roman Blackwell.
He was trying not to care about me.
And failing.
