When he spoke, the air between them filled with the heavy bite of whiskey, and even his gaze had gone a little unfocused—soft around the edges in that dangerous, half-drunken way.
Maeve had no interest in picking a fight with a man who'd been drinking.
he tried to reason with him, keeping her voice steady. "You came at me like you wanted to tear me apart. What was I supposed to do, just stand there and let you devour me?"
She didn't realize how that one word—devour—would light up Andres's imagination.
Especially given where she'd landed when she'd scrambled onto him—right where it made him go still and swear under his breath.
Fresh from the shower, Maeve smelled like soap and warmth—clean, close, and sweet enough to make a man hungry.
The moment she saw the raw want flare in his eyes, she tried to wrench free. Andres only tightened his hold, locking her in like he had every right.
Maeve glared up at him. "What do you want?"
Her challenge sobered him a fraction. He loosened, putting a sliver of distance between them, and his voice turned sharp. "What are you to Quinn?"
"Friends," Maeve said.
Andres clearly didn't buy it. "What kind of 'friends' risk their life for each other?"
"He runs his mouth. And you believed him?"
Still, Andres pushed. "How do you know him?"
"Online."
"How long?"
"Six years."
Six years. The thought hit him hard, souring in his throat in a way he didn't want to examine.
No wonder she and Quinn moved like they'd rehearsed each other's thoughts.
Andres's eyes didn't leave her. "When you left the Imperial, whose meeting were you going to?"
Maeve's brows drew together. "Are you seriously interrogating me?"
Andres's smile was all arrogance. "As your legal husband, I have the right to know where you go."

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