What the Groom Wants
“It wasn’t a conscious decision. Inside, her thoughts were one long shriek of terror. But outside, her body froze as she looked at Damon. He was sitting at ease on the parlor settee. His long fingers dangled—one hand off the armrest, the other stretched across the back—and each hand held something terrifying.
The right toyed with a tiny scrap of foolscap with writing on it. Her writing, her note, her private thought. He had read it. And a single glance at a stack of pages beside his legs told her he’d found all her notes.
She swallowed, the motion thick in her frozen throat.
What the other hand held was oddly less terrifying. A thin stiletto twisted in his nearly lax grip. Like a moth dangling from a web, it twirled and flashed dully in the sunlight. She didn’t need the reminder that Damon was deadly, but she saw it, nonetheless, and took its warning.
“What are you doing here, Damon?”
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