Chapter 138: Was that a thank you?.

Lysander is furious, but quiet.

That’s somehow worse than when he’s actually yelling.

I can’t tell whether he’s angry at Gerald, at the rest of his family, or at me for being dragged into it. His jaw is tight, his hands fixed on the steering wheel, and every now and then his fingers flex like he’s trying not to punch something.

I dutifully keep my mouth shut. ....Not because I’m scared of him. I’m not.

I just don’t know what to say.

And I won’t deny that watching him stand up for me was so freaking hot. The way he rose from his chair, the way his voice cut through the room, the way he called me his wife like it was a warning to every person who dared forget it.

My thighs have been clenched ever since.

Which is ridiculous. I should be thinking about the dinner, about Gerald’s words...even though technically it’s not my fault.

Instead, my mind keeps replaying the look on Lysander’s face when he told his uncle he wouldn’t let him disrespect me.

I glance at him.

His eyes remain on the road and I look away before he catches me staring.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. When we reach home, he parks the car and gets out. He walks around to open my door, holding it while I climb down.

He doesn’t say a word, then he shuts the door and heads inside.

I scramble after him.

He’s already halfway up the stairs when I step into the foyer. His long strides make it look as if he’s barely moving, while I’m practically jogging to keep up.

"Hey, wait up."

He stops, but doesn’t turn around.

I hurry up the steps. Damn my short legs. By the time I reach him, I’m a little breathless, and I’ve completely forgotten what I meant to say.

He turns his head.

"What?"

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. For someone who can argue a man into the ground, I’m suddenly terrible at putting a sentence together.

"I, uh..." I clear my throat. "I just wanted to thank you for standing up for me in front of your family."

His expression doesn’t change.

"I really appreciate it," I add, because apparently one thank-you wasn’t enough.

"I should apologize on behalf of my uncle. He isn’t always like that. He’s just hurt. That’s all."

Lysander’s gaze stays on me.

I shift my weight. "Still. You stood up for me. Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me for standing up for my wi......"

He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening again.

I wait.

He looks away, as if he’s searching for the right words and hates every single one he finds.

"Fuck this."

Before he can ask what I mean...i grab the front of his shirt and pull him toward me. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second then my mouth is on his.

The kiss is clumsy at first. I’m tugging him down, he’s taller than me, and my fingers are twisted in the fabric of his shirt. Our noses bump and I almost lose my balance on the stair, but his hand catches my waist before I can stumble.

That should be my cue to let go.....Instead, I kiss him harder.

His palm settles against my lower back, firm and warm.....And for the first time he doesn’t take over but he doesn’t push me away, either. He waits, still enough that I can feel the question in it.

So I answer by pulling him closer.

His mouth moves against mine, slow at first, then with a sudden intensity that steals the breath from my lungs. I taste the last trace of wine on his lips. His other hand rises to my cheek, his thumb brushing along my jaw as if he’s trying to make sure I’m really here.

I melt into him.

It’s embarrassing how quickly my body forgets every sensible thought I’ve ever had.

My fingers loosen in his shirt, then tighten again when he deepens the kiss. I feel the hard line of his chest beneath my palms, the faint scrape of his stubble against my skin, the way he bends toward me so I don’t have to stretch quite so far.

When I finally pull back, I’m breathing harder than I should be.

His forehead rests against mine and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

"What was that for?" he asks, voice low.

I swallow. "For standing up for me."

"That was a thank-you?"

"I was going to say it again, but you looked like you were about to give me a lecture."

"I wasn’t."

"You were absolutely about to give me a lecture."

His mouth twitches, though the anger hasn’t entirely left his face.

I smooth the wrinkled front of his shirt, pretending I didn’t just grab him like a woman with no self-control. "Besides, I wanted to."

His gaze drops to my mouth.

"Then don’t apologize for wanting to," he says.

My fingers pause against his chest.

"I wasn’t apologizing for that."

"I know."

He says it quietly. Not like he’s arguing or trying to win.

Just like he knows.

The silence between us changes. It’s no longer uncomfortable and I suddenly become very aware of how near he is. I look down, smoothing his shirt again even though there’s nothing left to fix.

"Gerald really is hurt," I say. "I know what it’s like to lose someone. It doesn’t make what he said right, but I understand why he’s angry."

"I understand it, too."

"Then why did you look like you wanted to kill him?"

"Because he was insulting my wife."

My heart gives an embarrassingly hard thump.

I glance up. "You keep saying that."

"Because it’s the truth."

He brushes a loose strand of hair away from my face. His touch is so gentle that it almost feels out of place on him.

I catch his wrist before he can pull away.

"Lysander?"

"What?"

"Are you angry with me?"

His expression shifts. The question seems to catch him off guard.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

I search his face, looking for the lie. "You’ve barely said a word since we left."

"I was angry."

"At Gerald?"

"At what he said. At the fact that you had to sit there and listen to it." His thumb moves once over my cheek. "Not at you."

Something in my chest loosens.

"Okay," I whisper.

He studies me for a second, then lowers his hand. "You should get some sleep."

I wrinkle my nose. "That’s a terrible way to end a kiss."

"Then don’t end it."

I stare at him.

He stares back and there it is again, that look that makes my thoughts scatter and my knees feel less reliable than they should.

I tug lightly at his shirt.

"Fine," I say. "One more."

This time, when I kiss him, he meets me halfway.