"I tried," he muttered against her mouth, nipping at her lower lip. "I tried to stay away. I gave it an hour. It was a very long hour. I wrote a poem. It was terrible. I burned it."
Isadora laughed breathlessly, tears still streaming down her face. "You wrote a poem?"
"It rhymed 'Isadora' with 'flora'. It was beneath my dignity. I blamed the brandy."
He lifted her easily, his strength effortless, unnatural. He set her on the cutting table, moving between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs. The wool of her dress bunched up, and his cold palms against her warm skin made her gasp.
"Caelan," she warned, her voice breathless. "Bram is here. He's sleeping in the kitchen."
"Then we shall be very, very quiet," Caelan whispered, his eyes darkening to that pitch-black void that signaled the predator was awake. "Though I make no promises about you."
