His daringness was not a surprise— no, she had long grown used to his arrogance— but the boldness, that expression that gleamed across his face as though he had won, as though everything he did was utterly correct, that was what made Arabella's fingers twitch with the unbearable urge to grab a fistful of his silver hair.
It wouldn't be fair, she thought bitterly, that he could stand there so smug, making her feel a frustration that climbed like fire up her throat, while he smiled as though her fury was a performance crafted solely for his amusement.
The air was thick with the scent of roses and wax; the candles flickered, their light trembling against the pale blue walls. Each second stretched, the silence sharpened— and then Morpheus moved.
