Chapter 100 Do You Love Me?

• “Be honest with me, Leslie.” Rafayel’s voice was dangerously calm, a deceptive quiet that was far more unnerving than a shout. His grip on me was a different story—fingers pressing into the backs of my knees, firm, possessive. He carried me as if I were a new bride, but this was no threshold. This was the cold, sterile glow of a Premier elevator, with the faint, sour whisper of ale from the pub below clinging to the air.
• “N-never,” I stammered, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I yanked at my jeans where they’d bunched, suddenly hyperaware of his gaze and the electric heat of his touch. “Terrell wouldn’t—”
• “Wouldn’t what?” His posh accent sharpened, slicing through my feeble denial like a scalpel. “Touch you? Hold you? Bloody hell, woman, do you truly believe he has never carried you like this? He’s your fiancé.” The words were a bitter poison, each one a calculated strike.