CHARLOTTE^
“I don’t see how,” I denied, my voice dangerously calm, contrast to the frantic drumbeat of my heart. I crossed my arms over my chest, a thin shield against the raw intensity of his gaze. He was looking over my bare legs, his eyes burning with a fire that seemed to scorch my skin, tracing every curve, yet an odd, almost defiant self-consciousness was absent. It felt… instinctual to let him look.
My wolf, usually howling against his disdain, merely stirred, a purr of agreement. This was my mate, the man designed for me, and something primal insisted on meeting his gaze. Instead, I c****d an inquisitive, mocking eyebrow, an unspoken dare for him to look his fill.
“My patience is nonexistent at this point, Miss Moreau,” King Arthur’s voice was a low growl, a rumble that vibrate
