CHAPTER THREE #3
The kiss started soft, almost cautious, like he still expected her to stop him.
When she didn't, something in him seemed to give way, and it deepened fast — his hand coming up to cup her jaw, hers curling into the front of his shirt without her quite deciding to let it.
He tasted like ozone and spiced wine, familiar in a way that made her chest ache with old, uncomplicated affection, and for a long moment she let herself simply feel it, let herself pretend, just for a breath, that this could be the simple answer to everything Sable had thrown at her that morning.
"Briar," he murmured against her mouth, voice rough, "tell me to stop, if you want me to stop."
She didn't say anything. She wasn't sure, in that moment, that she wanted him to.
They made it to her room somehow, hands and mouths still tangled together the entire way, a blur of dim corridors and closed doors until the latch clicked shut behind them and Torin's back found the wall, pulling her flush against him with a low, unsteady breath.
His hands slid up beneath the hem of her shirt, warm and sure, and Briar let him tug it over her head without protest, let her own hands find the fastenings of his tunic, working them loose with fingers that trembled more than she wanted to admit.
He walked her backward to the bed, easing her down onto it with a gentleness that felt achingly familiar, like every careful, protective instinct he'd ever had toward her funneled into the way his mouth moved from her lips to her jaw to the curve of her throat.
Briar arched into it, fingers threading into his hair, telling herself this was simple, this was safe, this was the uncomplicated thing she'd always been allowed to want.
Torin settled over her, braced on his forearms, storm-warmth crackling faintly against her skin everywhere they touched, and for a moment — one last, suspended moment — Briar let herself believe this could be enough.
Then he shifted his weight, moving to draw her in closer, and something in the position — the particular way his shoulders blocked the light, the specific weight of him settling over her — sent an image crashing through her mind she hadn't invited and couldn't unsee: the old training chamber, low fire-light, a different set of hands, a different mouth, a heat that had never once felt like safety and had felt like something far more dangerous and far more true.
Briar went still.
"Wait." The word came out rough, unsteady, and she felt Torin freeze immediately above her, every line of him going tense with instant, careful attention.
"What's wrong?"
She looked up at him — really looked, past the familiarity, past the comfort, past every practical reason this should have been easy — and felt something in her chest settle with quiet, unwelcome clarity.
"I can't do this." She sat up slowly, gently easing him back, guilt and relief tangled together so tightly she could barely separate them. "Torin, I'm sorry. This isn't — this isn't the right thing, not right now. Not like this."
Torin drew back, breathing unsteady, hurt flickering openly across his face before he could smooth it back into something more careful. "Because of him."
"Because of me," Briar said, quiet but certain, pulling her shirt back over her head with hands that had finally stopped shaking.
"I let myself do this because I was angry, and hurt, and looking for something simple to hold onto after the morning I had.
That's not fair to you. You deserve better than being someone's easy answer. "
"I don't need it to be simple," Torin said, low, raw. "I just need it to be real."
"I know." She met his eyes, steady despite the ache in her chest. "And that's exactly why I need you to leave.
Because if I let this go any further tonight, it wouldn't be because I chose you.
It would be because I was running from something else, and you deserve more than being someone's escape route. "
Torin held her gaze for a long moment, something complicated and wounded moving behind his eyes, before he nodded once, sharp and controlled, and rose from the bed to gather the tunic she'd half-unfastened.
"Alright," he said quietly, pulling it back on, composure sliding back into place like armor. "I meant what I said on the terrace, though. I'm not going anywhere, Briar. Not while there's still a version of this where you choose me instead of running toward whatever's easiest to regret."
He left without waiting for a response, the door clicking shut softly behind him, and Briar sat alone on the bed afterward, chest heaving, mind racing between guilt and relief and a deep, unsettled uncertainty she didn't have the first idea how to resolve.
Somewhere below her, in the black stone heart of Pyrhollow, she was fairly sure two men were quietly, carefully waging a war over her that had nothing to do with fists or fire and everything to do with patience — and she was no longer entirely sure which one of them she was more afraid of losing, or which one she was more afraid of choosing for the wrong reasons entirely.