She looked like she wanted to drop to her knees and beg.
She looked utterly, beautiful.
And he hadn't said a word yet.
Delilah's face wore the same practiced mask she'd perfected over years of Maxton privilege: chin lifted just enough, eyes cool and assessing, the subtle curve of her lips that said she was always in control, always the one giving orders.
But her hands betrayed her.
They were clasped in her lap, fingers laced so tightly the knuckles had gone pale, trembling faintly against the fabric of her skirt. And there, at the delicate hollow of her throat, her pulse fluttered wildly—rapid, desperate, a hummingbird trapped beneath porcelain skin.
She was nervous.
Good.
Phei stopped at the edge of the seating area. He didn't sit. He simply stood, towering, letting the silence stretch like a wire pulled taut between them.
