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It's a trick I learned young—the calmer you stay, the more foolish their rage appears.
"I’m not like any man you’ve met before," he says in a low voice that trembles with barely restrained violence. "Great. I’m not like any woman you’ve met before. Glad we cleared that up. Now, I’d appreciate it if you would let my father go and we’ll be out of your hair."
Unless he’s got a super specific kink for heavyset introverts who love to read smut, I’m safe.
Am I trying to drive her away? I can’t help it. The fact I look like a monster only compels me to act more like one.
"Never mind that now. Go to bed, Isabelle, before I throw you over my shoulder and take you back there myself." "I mean, it is our wedding night," she suggests in a light, teasing tone.
On the other, there's something more to him I can’t quite put my finger on. Or maybe that’s a side effect of reading too many romance novels, a lack of sleep, and an absolutely gripping attraction to my husband.
He can handle mercenaries, criminals, and entire packs of territorial shifters, but six romance readers openly admiring his biceps? Apparently, that’s his weakness.
