Entwined by Elisabeth Naughton

exactly what to say to turn his entire world upside down in the span of a heartbeat.
    Perspiration dotted Zander’s forehead as he remembered the feel of her silky smooth skin, the taste of her wet heat, the way she’d come apart around him right in this very spot. He reached up to wipe his brow. Dropped his arm. Then scowled, because that was a memory he so fucking didn’t need in his head while he sat here unlacing his boots so Callia could do her little “examination.”
    And—dammit—the rod of steel now nestled between his legs was an in-your-face reminder she, and not the gynaíka he was about to marry, was his soul mate.
    He let the boot in his hand thunk against the floor. Looked up and glared across the room. Callia had finished setting up and was now looking out the tall windows toward the countryside beyond, her arms folded across her chest and her jaw locked and tense.
    His chest pinched as he watched her. Gods, he’d been a fool. Back then there hadn’t been a single thing about her he hadn’t needed. Hadn’t wanted . He’d been so blinded he couldn’t even comprehend a time when she wouldn’t be exactly what he needed and wanted most.
    But that was then, wasn’t it? Before he’d realized what she really was deep inside. Before he’d discovered Hera had been absolutely correct in picking Callia as his soul mate because she was the epitome of everything he hated most. That past? What he’d done with her in this room? That really was a fantasy. This—he stared at her cold indifference and saw her as she really was and not as he’d wanted her to be—this was reality.
    The erection he’d been fighting since he stepped in the room faded. He dropped the other boot, locked his jaw and stood as he lifted the shirt over his head. He’d removed his weapons before coming into the castle, as was protocol, so he didn’t have to worry about his parazonium or any of the other gizmos Titus was always cooking up. And he was glad. Fiddling with his weapons would mean more time in this room with her alone.
    “Where do you want me?”
    She turned away from the window without meeting his eyes, dropped her arms and pointed toward the end of the king’s now-empty desk. “There. Sit.”
    He crossed the floor silently in bare feet and eased a hip onto the end of the king’s long desk. He tested the piece of furniture for stability, and when he was sure it wasn’t going to collapse under his weight, scooted back until his legs were hanging over the edge and his bare feet dangled inches above the floor.
    She didn’t say anything about the fact he wasn’t completely naked, and he wasn’t about to bring it up again. To distract himself, he stared down at his toes while she moved around the room. She pulled a small side table with her supplies next to her. Seconds later he felt her hand land on his back and couldn’t stop the way he arched in response. When she said, “Deep breath,” he forced himself to relax as she moved the stethoscope around, obviously listening to his lungs.
    The metal against his skin was cold, but her fingers were warm and silky—too warm and silky. His blood was already heating just from being this close to her, and every time she brushed his skin, it set off tremors deep in his body. He focused on his breathing, on the steady in and out, in an attempt to stay calm. When she moved around to stand in front of him, repeating the order, he averted his eyes from her face and focused on the fitted white sweater she wore instead.
    Her gasp brought his head up. “What happened to you?”
    “Nothing. I’m fine.”
    “That’s not nothing.” She focused on his shoulder as she looped the stethoscope around her neck, reached for her bag and came back with gauze and supplies.
    “Leave it,” he said before she could touch him. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
    She dabbed at the dried blood with a wad of gauze. “The muscle’s torn. You need this stitched closed before infection sets