t the mahogany wall with a violence that mad
e else breathed. She was a vision of artificial perfection-draped in head-to-to
's secretary hovere
od, I tried to tell her
" Killian
as a flat, icy blade that cut throu
. Her eyes narrowed, her nose wrinkling as if she had just stepped into a barn. She took in Elar
legance. "I know your grandmother has a soft spot for 'charity cases,'
n's voice made her feel smaller than she ever had back home. She started to stand, her country ins
an's
they squeezed slightly, a possessive, grounding pressure that forced
lian said, his voice dropping into a dan
llowed was so absol
k of a socialite slipped, revealing the predator beneath. Then, s
sa leaned over the desk, the scent of her c
ke she smells of rain and cheap soap. Is this a joke, Killian? Did you pick
slow-burning spark of Thorne family pride. She might be poor
he eye, refusing to flinch. "It's lavender. My grandfather grows it. And if I'm a j
le shift in his posture suggested he was leaning into t
es you're trying to fill? I am a St. Claire. I spent three years by Killian's side while you were probably mi
ther is just being difficult about the inheritance. You don't need to marry this... peasant. We can find another way to han
lowness, his towering height casting a long shadow over both wome
stock dipped last year, Vanessa," he said, each word hitting like a
r jaw. He tilted her face up, forced her to look at him. His eyes w
oud enough for Vanessa to hear every syllable. "
down and pressed a firm, lingering k
eek, peasant! And when he throws you back into the dirt where you belon
he thick, leather-bound contract on Killian's
d, her voice sweet bu
sweeth
through her that had nothing
dollars? And the debt for the
ghost of a smirk. "The wire
the pen," Elar
bold, flowing letters. Elara Thorne. With those two wor
e a peasant, Miss St. Claire. But I'm about to be the woman who signs your settlement
s eyes-the sheer, icy warning-made her stumble back. She turned on her
ra collapsed back into the chair, her
she whispered, covering
. He stood there, adjusting his platinum cufflinks, the
Vanessa is a snake, but my grandmother is the dragon. If she catches a single hint that this is a business arran
door, stopping only
fice is dead. You are the future Mrs. Blackwood. You w
her owner, her savior, and her gre
r lips for a second too long. "Then let's
turns to Elara and says: "One more thing. My grandmother believes we've been sleeping

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