Page 17 of Rogue’s Mark

"You look exhausting."

That earns me the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth, like a tiny victory.

"You keep replaying the word," he says. "The infamous ‘is’."

I look down at the papers.

Such a stupid little word to destroy my sanity. And yet here I am.

"He knows something about my father," I say, shrugging. "What would you do if you were me?"

Armen pushes away from the table and stops directly in front of me, close enough that my knees brush his thigh when I squirm in my chair. Heat blasts through me, which, at the moment, annoys the shit out of me.

"You buried your father already," he says.

The words hit hard enough that my throat tightens. "Yup. Sure did."

"And now someone handed you doubt."

And there we have it. Not hope but doubt. Which is somehow more painful.

His hand lifts to my face, large fingers sliding along my jaw. The contact wrecks me.

"I need you focused, Vi."

"I am focused. Sort of."

"No." His thumb strokes once beneath my cheekbone. "You're running on adrenaline and hope."

Rude. Accurate. Whatever.

I should pull away. Instead, I lean into his hand, desperate for reassurance.

His eyes darken instantly. The shift is small but unmistakable, that charged feeling that torments us both to the point of snapping. My pulse jumps. He notices. His gaze drops to my mouth before coming back to my eyes.

"Why do you always do that?" I murmur.

"Do what?"

"Torment me. And act like you have everything under control."

"I usually do," he says. "Usually."

There's something underneath it. Something he keeps locked down. The honesty of it steals the air from my lungs.

My fingers curl around the front of his shirt before I've decided to touch him.

"Vi."

Low warning. Too late.

I tug him closer and his restraint snaps. Our kiss hits hard enough to make me gasp. One hand slides into my hair while the other grips my waist and pulls me up out of the chair, his mouth moving over mine with rough hunger. I make a small helpless sound against his mouth, and he swears softly before kissing me deeper.

He walks me backward until my hips meet the edge of the table. Papers slide to the floor. His mouth moves to my throat, slow and deliberate, and every nerve ending I have is fully awake.

His hands slide under my shirt, palms warm against my bare skin, sliding lower, and I finally stop thinking about Fischer, which I suspect was at least partly the point. Armen’s fingers find me and I react, my hands gripping his shoulders, my head falling back.

"There she is," he says quietly.