Draven's dry irony vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a dark, sudden heat that flared in his eyes. The mockery died on his lips, and his jaw set in a hard, rigid line as he stared down at my lips.
"Good," he growled, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "Because I have absolutely no intention of playing the courtier."
Before I could even draw a breath to respond, he stood up from the stool, lifting me effortlessly with him. In one swift, unyielding motion, he turned and pinned me back against the heavy wooden door of the sewing room.
The solid thud of my back against the wood rattled the iron latch, but any sound was instantly swallowed as his mouth slammed down onto mine.
The kiss was rough, possessive, and frantic, driven by the volatile mix of the dark entity inside him and the raw, unchecked jealousy he had been trying to suppress.
