Eyes of Ice (Eyes of Ice Erotica Series) by Emily Rose

Even the vein in his neck had stilled.
    “I like to think of him that way, yes,” Andrew said coolly. “He is the closest thing that I have.”
    There was a silence in which the only sound Cecelia heard was the thudding of her own heart and her uneven breathing. Alexandra, for the first time in their admittedly brief acquaintance, looked panicked – she kept shooting questioning looks at an unresponsive Devon. And for his own part, Andrew would say no more.
    “Always a pleasure, Miss Hardwicke,” Devon said finally, directing his words over Cecelia’s shoulder to the distant wall. “Shall we, Alexandra?”
    “Devon,” Andrew said, and something jerked painfully inside Cecelia. Andrew had sounded half as if he was saying goodbye, and half as if he was begging for Devon to stay.
    But Devon did not glance at either of them, gliding from the room with an apologetic Alexandra by his side. The clan parted, and Devon and Alexandra continued, their way unobstructed, to the door.
    Andrew lowered his arm, taking Cecelia’s hand in his, and turned to face her , eyes downcast. Perhaps, Cecelia realized, this was because he was sad. His expression had been similarly unreadable earlier, in the restaurant, when he had been attempting to speak of himself.
    “Did I do something wrong?” Cecelia wondered out loud, genuinely concerned.
    “Not at all,” Andrew reassured her. “Come. There’s still the president and the board to meet. Then we can leave.”
    The rest of the evening was uncomfortable for a multitude of reasons. Cecelia could
    not shake the sadness of Devon’s departure; she now felt a palpably deep regret surrounding Andrew, though he gave no visible sign of his emotions beyond small displays of affection.
    Those displays excited her enough. Once more, he brushed a strand of hair from her face while gazing into her eyes, and occasionally, while listening to the discussions of the clan, he would squeeze her hand. When she felt this, Cecelia would look up at his face, startled, but find no more impression of his feelings there than a hint of the very smallest of smiles upon his lips, and a sidelong glance that made her feel like her skin was burning from the inside. That was enough.
    Cecelia found herself living for those affectionate signals when the most uncomfortable. Andrew had been right, she did not have to speak more than a handful of times the rest of the evening, but the way the clan members looked at her made her squirm. It had been shades of Devon’s hunger with every meeting, and she was so caught off guard still that all subjects of conversation faded from her memory as soon as they were introduced. A few times, Cecelia felt the eyes of clan members lingering on her skin, her neck, and was unpleasantly forced to imagine them seconds away from licking their lips and pouncing upon her. It’s like trying to carry on a conversation with a cobra , she told herself in nervousness, as the president of the clan, an elegant, silver-haired woman in a lavender gown, fixed her with a penetrating stare and unexpectedly asked:
    “What do you know of us?”
    Cecelia fumbled to make an understandable sentence out of the hurricane in her head. I know about blood donors and I’ve seen two hundred of you, and I could probably describe all of you to the police if I wanted to, was all she could come up with, a reply that would end her life, she was sure, never mind Andrew’s promises for protection. As this flew catastrophically through her mind, Andrew gripped her hand tightly and then answered for her, his tone remarkably reminiscent of Devon’s authoritative drawl: “Only what I deem appropriate, Madame President. Nothing more.”
       It was now Andrew’s turn to be captured in that devastating gaze. To Andrew’s credit and Cecelia’s amazement, he didn’t flinch.
    “This is neither the time, nor the place, Mr. Forrester,” the president informed him, frowning. Maybe she was displeased by his undaunted