"You're trembling again."
No. Don't point it out, idiot.
"I'm not," I lied. My voice cracked, a jagged fracture in the deep baritone of this avatar.
"I'm just... moved."
"Moved by what?" he asked, his tone flat, stripping away the playful facade.
"You're vibrating. And if it keeps going, you're going to break my wrist."
He slowly turned.
The movement was agonizingly slow, a rotational shift heavy with intent. T
he fabric of his black dress hissed—a dry, silk-on-skin sound that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
When he finally faced me, the visual was tantalizing.
He looked up at me through those long, feminine lashes, his face a masterpiece of delicate beauty, but the eyes behind the mask were sharp, masculine, and unyielding.
He looked down at the contact point—my thick fingers bruising his pale arm—and then up at my face. He wasn't looking for a teammate.
He was analyzing the predator tension in my jaw.
"Why are you holding on, really?" he whispered.
