Blanche's POV
I'd always known Vincent was a shameless flirt, but this level of audacity caught me completely off guard. Words escaped me for a moment.
The memory of Demetrius's dirty clothes crammed in my bag made me scramble for a topic change. "Vincent, I need to do some washing. Time for you to go."
His grin vanished the second I mentioned laundry. "What exactly needs washing?"
I shot him a sharp look. "Not your concern."
I moved toward the sofa to grab Demetrius's clothes.
The moment I leaned down, Vincent materialized in front of me, yanking the garments from my grip. "Your hands weren't made for scrubbing some bastard's dirty clothes."
He hurled the clothes to the floor, his expression turning ice-cold. Genuine anger flickered across his features.
I glared at him. "You—"
He cut me off before I could finish, his voice dripping with possessiveness. "Blanche, from this moment forward, Demetrius keeps his damn hands off your waist. You're mine."
