Chapter 23 #2
I froze. I didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, didn't even dare let my heartbeat be too loud, afraid of startling her. I froze there like a statue under a petrification spell, the only thing I could feel was the weight and warmth of her hair, and that familiar, faint jasmine scent.
"Your shoulder's still as hard as ever," she said, voice muffled.
"Because I'm tense," I said, voice hoarse and unlike my own. "I'm afraid if I move, you'll run."
"I won't run anymore," she said, voice so light it was almost blown away by the night wind. "I'm tired of running."
Slowly, carefully, I raised my arm, wrapped it around her shoulder, and pulled her into my embrace. She didn't resist. She leaned closer, burying her face in the crook of my shoulder, making a soft sound like a sigh.
We sat like that. The fountain's water murmured in the night, moonlight spreading a silvery-white path at our feet. From distant hills came occasional wolf howls, long and gentle, like singing a lullaby for this night.
I don't know how long we sat there. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour.
Time lost meaning this night. I only knew her body heat transmitted through our clothes, warm, like a fire burning in my chest. I only knew her breathing gradually became steady, like she'd finally let down all her guard in a safe place.
"Zane," she suddenly spoke, voice muffled in my shoulder.
"Mm?"
"Have you ever thought that the problem between us isn't just about trust?"
I was silent for a second. "What else?"
She lifted her head, looking at me. Moonlight illuminated her face, making her features clear and soft. Her eyes held a seriousness I'd never seen—not anger, not sadness, but an expression like finally deciding to take something she'd hidden for a long time out to air in the sun.
"Pride," she said. "You're too proud. So am I. We're both too proud. We'd lose each other rather than bow first."
I looked at her, said nothing, because every word she said was right.
"If there's a next time—" she began.
"There won't be a next time," I cut her off, voice hoarse but firm. "I promise you. Next time, no matter what happens, I'll come to you first. I'll bow first. I'll throw my damned pride in the trash, then kneel before you and beg you to hear my explanation."
She looked at me, lips curving into a tiny arc. "Sounds like a good plan."
"So—" I looked at her, heart beating fast, "does this mean you're willing to give me another chance?"
She tilted her head, as if seriously considering the question. Then she reached out, poking my chest with her finger—right where that scar was.
"This scar," she said, "you got it shielding me from that falling rock in the cave."
"I remember."
"Do you remember what you shouted at me then?"
I froze. That memory from the cave was somewhat blurred—I'd lost too much blood then, my consciousness wasn't very clear. I tried hard to recall, but could only remember fragmentary images. The sound of falling rocks, her scream, my instinctive reaction to throw myself over... and then—
Then I seemed to say something.
"I—" I hesitated, "I think I said something like..."
"'This time I won't let go,'" she said, completing the sentence for me.
I froze.
She looked at me, moonlight flickering in her eyes. "You said that, then passed out. But you grabbed my hand and never let go. When the medic came to save you, it took three people to pry your fingers open."
I opened my mouth to say something but found my throat blocked by something.
"So," she said, voice light but every word clear, "I think a man who can hold onto me that tightly even while unconscious is probably worth me taking another risk on."
I looked at her, feeling my eyes burn.
"Mia—"
"But," she held up a finger, pressed it against my lips, stopping me from continuing, "if you screw up again, I won't just run to another kingdom. I'll run to another dimension. Where you can't even find me."
I grasped the hand pressed against my lips, placed it on my chest—over my heart.
"If I screw up," I said, "you don't need to run to another dimension. You just need to stop loving me. That would be the cruelest punishment for me."
She looked at me, silent for several seconds. Then she smiled—not that sarcastic, defensive smile, but a real, warm smile, like ice finally cracking.
"You know what's most infuriating about you?" she said.
"What?"
"You always manage to say the right thing at the last second."
"That's because," I said, lowering my head, forehead against hers, "I spent five years practicing every day how to win you back."
Her eyelashes trembled. We were close enough that I could feel her breath on my lips, warm and quick.
"How's that practice working out?" she whispered.
"So far," I said, voice hoarse, "pretty well."
Then I kissed her.
The kiss was light, like a test, like confirming this wasn't an illusion. Her lips were soft and warm, with the slight astringency of red wine and some sweetness that belonged only to her. She didn't push me away or dodge—she tilted her head slightly and kissed me back.
In that moment, I felt five years of time recede like a tide. All the pain, regret, loneliness and despair dissolved in this kiss, dissipated, like salt dissolving in water, like snow melting in spring.
When we parted, her eyes were bright, like moonlight falling into a lake.
"Your kissing skills have gotten worse," she said, voice a bit hoarse.
"Five years out of practice," I said. "If you're willing, I can practice every day."
She hummed, leaning back against my shoulder. "In your dreams."
I laughed, tightening my arms, pulling her closer.
The fountain murmured in the night. Moonlight bathed us in silvery-white radiance. From distant hills, wolf howls rose and fell, like singing us an ancient song.
I lowered my head and kissed the top of her head.
"I love you," I said.
She didn't answer. But she covered my hand at her waist with hers, squeezed gently.
That squeeze carried more weight than any words.
Her hand lingered on mine, fingers tracing slow circles against my knuckles. The touch was deliberate, teasing. I felt the shift in her breathing before I saw it in her eyes—that gaze darker now, pupils dilated in the moonlight.
"We should go inside," she said, but she didn't move.
"Should we?" My thumb brushed along her jawline, tilting her face up to mine. Her lips parted slightly, and I felt the exhale ghost across my mouth.
"Lily's asleep. Aila won't bring her back until morning." Her voice dropped lower, took on an edge that made heat pool low in my gut. "And you've been very... patient these last three days."
Patient. Christ. I'd been climbing the walls.
Three days lying in that medical bed, smelling her jasmine scent every time she came to check on me, watching her lean over to adjust my pillows, feeling her fingers brush my forehead when she checked for fever.
Three days of wanting her so badly I thought I'd lose my mind, but holding back because I didn't want to seem like an animal who couldn't control himself.
But now—
"You have no idea," I said, voice rough, "how hard it's been not touching you."
Her smile turned wicked. "Oh, I have some idea." Her hand slid from mine, traced up my forearm, over the curve of my bicep. "You get this look in your eyes every time I walk into the room. Like you want to devour me."
"That's because I do."
I stood and pulled her up with me. She came willingly and pressed herself against my chest. I could feel every curve of her through the thin fabric of her shirt, feel the rapid beat of her heart matching mine.
"Then stop talking," she whispered against my mouth, "and do it."
I kissed her again, harder this time. No more testing, no more caution.
Her lips opened under mine, and I tasted wine and want and five years of hunger finally given permission to feed.
My hands found her waist, pulled her closer until there was no space between us, until I could feel the soft press of her breasts against my chest and hear the small sound she made in the back of her throat.
She pulled back, just enough to speak. "Not here. Anyone could—"
"My room," I said. "Now."
I swept her up before she could respond, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She gasped and grabbed my shoulders.
"Your wound..."
"Is fine." And it was. The ache was nothing compared to this. I carried her through the garden, up the stairs to the private wing. She buried her face in my neck, lips trailing along my pulse point, and I nearly stumbled.
"Trying to make me drop you?" I growled.
"Trying to make you hurry up."
I shouldered my bedroom door open, kicked it shut behind us. The room was dark except for moonlight streaming through the windows, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. I set her down by the bed, but before I could move, she was already unbuttoning my shirt, fingers quick and sure.
"Someone's eager," I said, catching her hands.
She looked up at me, and there was something wild in her eyes, something unleashed. "You said you wanted to devour me. So devour me, Zane. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not running. I'm right here, and I want—" She swallowed. "I want you."
Those words broke something in me. Whatever control I'd been clinging to shredded like paper.
I spun her around and pulled her back against my chest. My hands found the buttons of her shirt, undid them one by one—slowly, deliberately, while she trembled against me.
When the fabric fell open, I pushed it off her shoulders and let it pool on the floor.
My palms slid up her ribcage, over the soft lace of her bra, and she arched into the touch with a sharp inhale.
"You're so fucking beautiful," I murmured against her ear. "I've dreamed about this. About you. Every night for five years."
"Show me." Her voice was breathless. "Show me what you dreamed."