Free In the Crossfire (Bloodhaven) by Lynn Graeme Page B

flash of anger. She had no right to be here, not without giving plenty of notice. She had no right to invade his sanctuary. She had no right to see him exposed so cruelly.
    Her expression, so often cool and giving nothing away, was especially, carefully neutral now. Liam knew what she saw, however. She couldn’t miss the dark, jagged lines criss-crossing his left ribcage. She couldn’t help but take full inventory of the broken surface of his torso, parting gifts from the surgical blades his captors had used on him. Nor could she miss the teeth marks that had torn out a good deal of flesh from his waist.
    That didn’t even include the hypertrophic scars and irretrievable burn marks scattered across his back.
    Liam clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He counted down the endless minutes until this humiliation ended.
    Then he heard a hitch in her breath, and Liam’s head jerked up. He forced himself to take a closer look. He was stunned to see a rosy flush spread across Isobel’s cheeks.
    In that moment, he saw that her eyes weren’t cool and distant at all. In fact, they flared with sudden heat, the hazel darkening to a greenish bronze as they traced the corded biceps of his arms, down to the sharp lines of his torso and traveling the ripples of his abdomen.
    When her gaze followed the thin line of hair below his navel, right to where it disappeared below his jeans, Liam instantly grew hard, felt himself rise in eager greeting.
    He heard her suck her breath in quite audibly. Her breasts began a shallow, uneven rhythm of rise and fall beneath her fitted tank.
    Liam was speechless.
    Of course, he never knew what to say to this woman, but in this instance, he definitely didn’t know what to say to this woman.
    There was no denying he’d entertained a myriad of lustful images starring Isobel Saba over the past several months. Isobel, dressed head-to-toe in that leather she loved so much. Isobel, bent over his kitchen table, dressed in nothing at all. Isobel, backing him into his bed before straddling him for a wild ride.
    In his head, there’d be no need for words. Their lips and tongues and teeth would come together in a wild, riotous clash of emotions. He would have her under him, her body writhing madly as he buried his mouth between her legs. In his head, he knew exactly what to do to make her come.
    Those scenarios had always remained strictly in the realm of fantasy, as there’d been no reason for Liam to think—to allow himself to think—that the calm and collected Isobel would ever want him as much as he craved her.
    Women didn’t look at him that way. Isobel didn’t look at him that way.
    He’d thought her uninterested, and so had let her be. Left himself to his own fantastical devices. But he’d been wrong. She was very, very aware of him as a man.
    Liam’s mouth went dry. Absurdly, irrationally, he considered walking around shirtless more often. He felt himself grow hot, and this time not from shame.
    He hadn’t scented her desire. Still didn’t scent it. It made no sense.
    He was confused, aroused, interested—all those hard instincts and disbelieving emotions tumbled around in a huge jumbled mess before being brought sharply to attention.
    Then Isobel shook her head and quickly stepped back. The cool, casual, noncommittal look returned, affixing itself on her face. Her shoulders went back. Neither of them commented on the awkward, weighted silence that followed.
    Finally Isobel canted her head to one side. “Jackal?”
    Liam frowned before realizing she was looking at a particular set of scars by his ribs. Lithe fingers started to lift toward him before she swiftly dropped them to her side.
    “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Black-backed.”
    Isobel looked suitably impressed. In the pause that followed, Liam waited for her to ask about the other, more vicious scars, the cruel kisses left behind by his captors.
    Instead, she lifted her right arm, gesturing at a row of scars