One Wrong Night with the Ice God

SHEILA POV:

His hand shot out, catching my wrist in a grip like a steel clamp. I couldn't move.

"Trying to hit me?" His ice-blue eyes held no warmth, only a detached, playful curiosity. "With that little strength? Didn't you eat?"

I struggled to pull my hand back, but he was immovable. The motion only brought us closer.

I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the long sweep of his lashes. His breath, smelling of mint toothpaste, ghosted across my face.

The intimacy of it was another layer of humiliation. I turned my head away, refusing to look at him.

As I thrashed, the comforter I was clutching slipped. It fell away with a soft whoosh, leaving me completely exposed to his gaze once more.

A small gasp escaped me. My other hand flew to grab the fabric, my face burning so hot I thought it might combust.

He seemed to freeze for a second, his eyes raking over me. The look was direct, invasive, like I was a piece of property being appraised.

Then he released my wrist and leaned back against the headboard, an amused spectator at my one-woman disaster.

I scrambled to wrap myself in the comforter again, bundling it around me like a mummy, and retreated to the far corner of the bed, a cornered animal.

"Forget everything that happened last night," I bit out, the words tasting like acid. "Nothing happened between us."

I didn't dare look at him. My eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for my dress.

I scrambled off the bed, snatched the crumpled fabric from the floor, and turned my back to him, fumbling to put it on as fast as I could.

The zipper was in the back. I clawed at it, my fingers clumsy and useless. I was close to tears.

A rustling sound came from behind me. He was getting out of bed.

My entire body went rigid. I could feel him approaching, each footstep a hammer blow against my heart.

A pair of warm, large hands landed on my back. He gently pulled the zipper up.

His fingertips brushed against my skin, sending an unwanted shiver through me.

"All zipped up," he murmured, his voice low in my ear. "Can we talk now?"

I spun around, putting distance between us, my eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I have nothing to talk to you about."

He had pulled on his pants, his upper body still bare, a distracting display of sculpted muscle. He took a cigarette from a pack in his suit pocket, lighting it but not smoking, just holding it between his fingers.

"Is that so?" He blew out a stream of white smoke. "A girl spends the night in a hotel with a strange man. You think there's nothing to talk about?"

"What do you want? Money?" I sneered. It was the only explanation that made sense.

His eyes, which had been lazily amused, turned instantly cold. "What did you say?"

He stalked toward me, the sheer force of his presence backing me up until my back hit the cold, unyielding wall.

He leaned in, planting his hands on either side of my head, trapping me between his arms and the wall.

"Look at me," he commanded. "And say it again."

I met his gaze defiantly, but I saw a flicker of real, insulted anger in their depths.

Just when I thought he would explode, he suddenly smiled, a chilling expression that didn't reach his eyes.

"Since you think we need a solution," he said, his gaze locked on mine, enunciating every word. "Then let's get married."

I stared at him, certain I had misheard. "What... what did you say?"

"I said, I'll marry you. Take responsibility." He repeated it, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather.

Absurd. The sheer absurdity of it all crashed over me. I started to laugh, a hysterical, broken sound that brought tears to my eyes.

"Responsibility? Who do you think you are? You think a ring is going to fix this?" I shot back, my voice sharp with scorn. "You're just trying to find another way to take advantage of me!"

He watched my hysterical display, his expression becoming unreadable, and he didn't deny my accusation. It only confirmed my deepest fear: this man, from head to toe, was a massive conspiracy.