But he hadn't.
Instead, he'd let her in. Held her. Kissed her. Made her one of his.
She'd thought—naively, stupidly, hopefully—that the same would happen when she saw Victoria and Nastya make their move.
That whatever mercy he'd extended to her, whatever capacity for forgiveness lived inside him, would stretch far enough to cover her sister too.
She was wrong.
His anger was instant.
Total.
With Nastya, he'd been almost gentle. With the Romano girl's hand—a bold move, an intimate move—he'd reached up and unwrapped her fingers with careful, deliberate precision.
Lifted her hand away from him gently before he stood.
No anger.
No heat.
Just a quiet not this, not nowthat Nastya had accepted with wide eyes and a frozen spine.
But Victoria had been shoved.
With words and tone.
"I said let go of my arm."
Phei's voice dropped.
And the temperature dropped with it.
