Zara
Dad stands in the doorway, and for one horrible, suspended second, nobody says anything.
Locke’s hand is still cradling my face, his body still angled toward mine, his mouth close enough that my own still remembers what almost happened even though it never did. I sit very still on the couch, trying not to look like a woman who was half a breath away from kissing one of my father’s men in a club back room.
Dad looks at me, then at Locke, then back at me. His eyebrows lift.
“Well,” he says mildly, “this looks cozy.”
Heat rushes up my face so fast I almost get lightheaded.
Locke doesn’t move quickly, because of course he doesn’t. Men like him apparently don’t get caught or caught out, they just decide the moment is over and return to control like it never left them. He leans back s
