Dangerous Desire

21

“Move away.”

Killian doesn’t even sound as if he’s exerting himself. His voice is level, his expression is calm, but his eyes on me are burning.

Raphael’s face is turning purple. He drops to his knees, but Killian doesn’t let go. Spittle flecks his lips, which work soundlessly as he struggles for air, clawing with both hands at Killian’s arm.

I think I might be about to watch him die, right here in front of me.

My heart beating like mad, I step closer and look up into Killian’s eyes. “Let him go right now!”

There’s something wild in Killian’s gaze. Something unleashed, animal, as if he’s no longer human. It’s deeply frightening, mainly because I’ve seen this before.

Unfortunately, when you’re dealing with an animal, you have to appeal to an animal’s instincts.

I set my open palm in the middle of Killian’s chest and lower my voice. “Please. If you let him go, I’ll—”

Killian releases Raphael so abruptly I gasp. He topples sideways to the floor, where he’s racked by a fit of coughing, curling up into a fetal position and holding his neck.

Then I’m no longer paying attention to Raphael because Killian takes me by my shoulders, drags me roughly against his body, and bends his head down so his face is close to mine. “You’ll what?”

His voice is that sandpaper snarl again. He stares at me, unblinking, his jaw as hard as granite.

Careful, Eva. Careful. I say, “Behave. I promise I’ll behave.”

When his gaze drops to my mouth, I stop breathing. The moment stretches out until it becomes unbearable, but then Killian drags his blistering gaze back up to mine.

His fingers digging into my skin, he dips his head and puts his mouth next to my ear. “You’ll have to do better than ‘behave.’”

I hear the innuendo in his voice, and everything inside me rebels against it. I have to take a moment to steady myself so I don’t scream bloody murder in his face. “This is me reminding you again that you said rape was beneath you.”

His breath washes warm and soft against my neck when he replies. “It’s not rape if you’re offering.”

“I’m not offering!”

I try to pull away, but he’s got me in too tight a grip. So tight my breasts are smashed against his chest and the heat of his body burns me right through my clothing.

On the floor, Raphael wheezes. “Stop it, you barbarian! Leave her be!”

Killian and I are locked in a silent push-pull embrace, my head turned to the side and his cheek against my neck, his stubble rough against my skin, scratching it. My palms are flattened over iron pecs. He smells like soap and smoke and leather, a hint of masculine musk.

He says deliberately into my ear, “If you disobey me again, or interfere in any way with my orders or decisions, or pull another stupid trick like jumping off the ship, I’ll put a knife through Raphael’s thorax. In fact, if you do anything that displeases me at all, I’ll put a knife through Raphael’s thorax.”

He pulls away slightly so we’re eye to eye, letting me see how serious he is. And I do. This isn’t just a threat to see if I’ll listen. He means it.

Then he smiles. “Since you enjoy playing the hero so much.”

That dimple flashes again, mocking me like a middle finger in the side of his face.

This time when I try to yank away, he allows it. He releases me, adopts a bored expression, and turns a sour eye to Raphael, still wheezing pathetically on the floor. “Get up.”

I help Raphael to his feet. It’s no easy task, because he’s as weak kneed as a newborn giraffe, stumbling over his own feet and clinging to me. I think he’s about to start weeping.

“You’re okay, Raphael,” I say firmly, trying to shore him up. “If you can still breathe, your windpipe wasn’t damaged. You’ll be sore and bruised, but you’re going to be okay. Understand?”

He looks at me with big, watery blue eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse,” he whispers hoarsely, sniffling. “My poor bruised windpipe or the fact that you must know from experience that if I can still breathe, it wasn’t damaged.”

My laugh is grim. “I’m a walking encyclopedia when it comes to all the ways a human body can be hurt. Here, put your arm around my shoulder. Let me help you to that chair.” Then, in French, I tell him not to worry because I won’t let Killian lay a finger on him again.

His shock at hearing me speak his language is so profound he almost falls to the floor again.

Still in French, I tell him, “I speak Russian, English, French, and German. I understand a smattering of Korean, too, but not enough to hold a conversation. Only enough to know when arms negotiations are being held.”

Killian says loudly, “Congratulations on your linguistic talents, but you’re not the only person around here who speaks French.”

Under his breath, Raphael whispers, “Schwanz.”

It’s the German word for d**k. And it’s spoken with such ferocious hatred it gives me an idea.

As quietly and quickly as I can, I ask Raphael in German if he can get me a phone.

Before his loyalty or the extent of his fear of Killian can be tested, however, I’m grabbed by the scruff of my neck and hoisted away, leaving Raphael gasping, collapsing into the chair I was leading him to.

“What did you say to him?”

Killian has one hand gripped around the back of my neck. He closes the other around my throat. He looms over me, glaring, six-plus feet of danger, the look in his eyes purely lethal.