“My hand slipped.” His voice held not an ounce of apology. That was, for lack of a better term, utter crap. Rhys didn’t slip. He may be larger than the average person, but he moved with the lethal grace of a panther. That was what he reminded me of right now—a panther preparing to pounce on unwitting prey. Taut face, coiled muscles, and eyes trained with laser intensity on Steffan, who shifted with discomfort beneath his stare.
