Harley.
"No," I squeaked.
Don't blame me, okay? My breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my pride, while every fiber of my being practically purred at his words.
My throat closing up like it was terrified of what might crawl out next. My lungs forgetting how to process oxygen, and every rational cell in my brain flipped its resignation letter and walked out the door.
His words. *Those* words. I'd been dreaming about versions of them since the first moment I laid eyes on Clad, and now that they were real, *really real*, they hit harder than any fantasy ever could.
They were bold. Brash. Drenched in possessiveness. And they came from *him*—from the same man who usually spoke like the world owed him silence, the same man whose restraint had always been part of his mystery.
Bold words. Rough words. Words that didn't sound like Clad at all.
Which made them *dangerously perfect*.
