In Defiance of Duty by Caitlin Crews Page B

she’d said in between them. He wanted to take her down to the floor and remind her exactly how good it was between them—but too well did he remember what she’d said in Washington. Her accusations echoed in his ears even now, every bitter word like a separate knife into his gut. That all they had between them was that chemistry, that need.
    “Harry who?” he asked, bored by what was obviously a stalling tactic.
    “You know exactly who he is.” She rolled her eyes. “And he didn’t deserve the look you gave him.” Azrin smiled with a benevolence he did not feel, and somehow managed to keep his hands off of her as he lowered himself to lounge on one of the sofas. He barely glanced at the rest of the room, done with that brisk, efficient elegance that so categorized this place. These people. He propped his chin on one hand and eyed Kiara instead as she perched on a nearby chair, clearly determined to keep a safe distance between them. It irritated him beyond measure.
    This was his wife. His queen. And she was afraid—or unwilling—to be too near him. He had to lock down the great surge of fury and something else far deeper, far darker, that moved in him then, threatening to take him over.
    “I can assure you, Kiara,” he said in a voice he could not quite control, “I saw only you.” Her gaze snapped to his for a moment before she looked away again. She moved her shoulders—as if she was bracing herself. As if she had to prepare herself to speak with him, as if she could no longer simply do it. He hated all of it.
    “Looming about all menacingly in the kitchen and trying to intimidate everyone around you is not how we do things here,” she said in some version of her usual teasing tone. This one, however, was laced through with something far sharper. “Though we certainly have names for it.”
    “I was not trying to intimidate anyone,” he said mildly enough. Which was perhaps not in the least bit mild. “You would know it if I had been, I am certain.” She shook her head as if she despaired of him. He let his gaze travel all over her, and enjoyed it when she flushed. There was so much to say, to work through, and yet all he could seem to concentrate on was the simple satisfaction of being with her again. Of affecting her. Of making her react to him instead of simply walking away from him. He was sure that made him a fool, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care.
    “You look tired,” he pointed out because he knew it would make her eyes narrow in outrage, and it did. “Sleepless nights? An unquiet mind, perhaps, interfering with your rest?”
    “Not at all.” She met his gaze then with the full force of hers, brown and deep and, he couldn’t help but notice, shadowed. She angled her chin up in some kind of defiance. “I’ve never slept better.”
    Azrin didn’t bother to call her a liar. He didn’t have to. He could see the smudges of sleeplessness below her beautiful eyes, like twin bruises. He could see how pale she still was, though that did not seem to diminish either her prettiness or his automatic response to it. He found her as bewitching as ever—more, he acknowledged, because she seemed so unusually vulnerable.
    And he was not above feeling it as a kind of victory that her return home had not resulted in an immediate return to her former vitality. That this separation was as terrible for her as it was for him. That she was not blooming into health and happiness without him. What would he have done if she was?
    The air between them seemed to stretch, then tighten. Finally, she shifted in her seat, as if the tension was getting to her as much as it was to him. He had the impression it was hard for her to look at him again. Or perhaps he only wanted it to be. As if that might be telling.
    “Why are you here?” she asked quietly, staring down at her hands as if they fascinated her suddenly.
    “To discuss the terms of our separation, of course.” Which was true, in its way. She