"Melody, it's not wrong to hold hands, is it?" Izaak questioned her. She lowered her eyes to their entwined fingers when a sudden pull made her lean toward Izaak's side.
She found herself on his lap, her hand instinctively resting on his chest. She didn't meet his gaze until he lifted her chin, his calloused fingers holding it gently.
In his eyes, she saw a longing that mirrored her own—a desire to bridge the gap between them, to explore what lay beyond it.
"When you don't give me a desirous response, I feel upset and furious. You shouldn't see me as the prince. Try to know me as Izaak," Izaak said with a plea. He lowered his hand from her chin and traced her slender neck as he got the fragrance of fresh blood, running through her veins.
"His Highness shall let me go," Melody said.
"You find this uncomfortable?" Izaak queried.
"Yes. He must be uncomfortable holding me like this," Melody answered.
"No." He refused.
