"BE QUIET."
Grayson's command was low, a jagged edge of warning, but his hands betrayed him.
He hated his own vulnerability, hated that she could read the deficits in his body so clearly. He reached out, his large hands gripping her waist, and lifted her cleanly off the floor.
He set her down on the low wooden bench by the hearth, stepping between her knees to lock her against the stone wall.
"I am the protector here," he muttered, his face descending until his nose brushed against hers. His breath was hot, thick with the sudden, volatile passion that always flared when she pushed him too hard. "You do not worry about my strength. You do not worry about my hunger. I handle it."
"You're doing a terrible job," she whispered, her hands finding their way under his heavy coat, wrapping around the warm, hard muscle of his back.
