The Boundary Line ( The Lineage Series #3)

Chapter 5

"No," I said, unapologetic, flat.

He let out a quiet breath—half laugh, half something else. "Didn't think so."

He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, voice dropping lower. "You think this just disappears because we act like it didn't happen?"

That hit. But I didn't show it.

Instead, I sat up straighter, arms crossing as I met his gaze head-on.

"There's nothing to disappear," I said sharply. "Whatever fantasy you've got playing in that head of yours? Shut it down. I'm not interested, Sinclair."

He didn't flinch.

"And I never will be," I added. "So don't get cute, and don't get bold."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing—but it wasn't annoyance.

It was fascination.

I kept going, biting with each word. "You think you can just walk in here with your pretty eyes and your quiet, tortured act, and I'm gonna fall? Nah. That might work on the girls who don't know any better—but me? I see through that. I've dealt with men like you before. I don't lose sleep over them."

He smiled then.

Not the grin of a man who'd been insulted.

But the kind of smile that made it clear—he liked it.

"You done?" he asked, voice low, intimate.

"Almost," I said, stepping in closer. "Ou vrèman panse ou enpòtan konsa?"

His brows lifted slightly at the sound of it.

"You really think you matter that much?"

His eyes darkened—just slightly.

But then he leaned in, slow and steady, and said something I didn't expect. Something that made the breath catch in my chest.

"Sexy as hell, ti flanm." (little flame)

My jaw dropped.

"What did you just say?" I asked, voice small in my throat.

He looked too calm. Too confident.

My heart kicked hard.

"How the hell do you know Haitian Creole?"

He shrugged, not smug—almost shy.

"I don't. Not much. Just a little. Picked up pieces from one of my friends from New York. He taught me a little bit here and there," he said. "Guess I learned enough to recognize fire when I see it."

Ti flanm.

Little flame.

My throat tightened. My spine went rigid. I didn't know if I wanted to slap him or kiss him or disappear through the damn floor.

"You don't get to call me that," I said quickly, fingers curling at my sides.

"I know," he murmured. "But you liked it."

"I didn't."

"You did."

My nostrils flared. "Keep thinking that if it helps you sleep."

He grinned again—lazy and unbothered—and stepped back toward the door.

"Wouldn't need sleep if you stopped living rent-free in my head," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Miss Bennett."

He said it with that same respectful tone he knew he wasn't fooling me with. Then, just as he reached the door, he turned his head over his shoulder.