t the mahogany wall with a violence that mad

e else breathed. She was a vision of artificial perfection-draped in head-to-to

's secretary hovere

od, I tried to tell her

" Killian

as a flat, icy blade that cut throu

. Her eyes narrowed, her nose wrinkling as if she had just stepped into a barn. She took in Elar

legance. "I know your grandmother has a soft spot for 'charity cases,'

n's voice made her feel smaller than she ever had back home. She started to stand, her country ins

an's

they squeezed slightly, a possessive, grounding pressure that forced

lian said, his voice dropping into a dan

llowed was so absol

k of a socialite slipped, revealing the predator beneath. Then, s

sa leaned over the desk, the scent of her c

ke she smells of rain and cheap soap. Is this a joke, Killian? Did you pick

slow-burning spark of Thorne family pride. She might be poor

he eye, refusing to flinch. "It's lavender. My grandfather grows it. And if I'm a j

le shift in his posture suggested he was leaning into t

es you're trying to fill? I am a St. Claire. I spent three years by Killian's side while you were probably mi

ther is just being difficult about the inheritance. You don't need to marry this... peasant. We can find another way to han

lowness, his towering height casting a long shadow over both wome

stock dipped last year, Vanessa," he said, each word hitting like a

r jaw. He tilted her face up, forced her to look at him. His eyes w

oud enough for Vanessa to hear every syllable. "

down and pressed a firm, lingering k

eek, peasant! And when he throws you back into the dirt where you belon

he thick, leather-bound contract on Killian's

d, her voice sweet bu

sweeth

through her that had nothing

dollars? And the debt for the

ghost of a smirk. "The wire

the pen," Elar

bold, flowing letters. Elara Thorne. With those two wor

e a peasant, Miss St. Claire. But I'm about to be the woman who signs your settlement

s eyes-the sheer, icy warning-made her stumble back. She turned on her

ra collapsed back into the chair, her

she whispered, covering

. He stood there, adjusting his platinum cufflinks, the

Vanessa is a snake, but my grandmother is the dragon. If she catches a single hint that this is a business arran

door, stopping only

fice is dead. You are the future Mrs. Blackwood. You w

her owner, her savior, and her gre

r lips for a second too long. "Then let's

turns to Elara and says: "One more thing. My grandmother believes we've been sleeping