When he handed me the pendant, I stared at it for too long. My fingers curled around it, my chest tightening, and I hated how warm my face felt. So I put it aside.
It clicked against the stone mantle, and his gaze sharpened on me, unreadable. But that night, when he wasn’t looking, I picked it up again. I couldn’t help it. I kept it near my furs, buried but close, for I couldn’t quite let it go.
He taughtme to set snares. His hands might be large and scarred, but they were deft as anything as they worked the knots and loops. I watched, fascinated by how precise his fingers could be, how gentle when he wanted.
And my mind strayed, imagining how those fingers would feel… on me.
“Try,” he said, passing me the cord.
I did, fumbling the first time. His hand came over mine, warm and sure, guiding my movements. My breath caught at the simple contact, but I covered it with words.
“You know,” I said, “you’re as bossy as an old kitchen matron.”
He arched a brow. “What’s that?”
I taught him the wordmatron, and a few other choice curses in Common. His deep voice rolled over the strange syllables, slow and careful, until he got them right.
When he tried one out on me later—a particularly sharp insult involving burnt bread and donkey hides—I almost choked on my laugh.
“Not bad,” I admitted. “But your accent’s terrible.”
That night,I offered him food with my hands.
We were sitting close by the fire, our knees almost brushing. I dipped the smallest piece of roasted rabbit in the stew and held it out, too tired to fetch the bowl. He looked at my hand for a long moment before leaning forward and taking it.
With his mouth.
His lips brushed my fingers, rough and warm. And then—slowly, deliberately—his tongue slid against the tip of my finger, tasting the broth.
I froze, breath caught in my throat.
He didn’t break eye contact.
The world narrowed to that single, devastating point of heat where his mouth touched my skin.
I should have pulled away. I didn’t.
Instead, I watched him. His eyes were dark, the firelight threading gold through green, and I could feel something thrumming in the air between us, thick and electric. My pulse pounded, my body tightening with an ache I didn’t want to name.
He drew back just slightly, his gaze still locked on mine, his tongue catching the last trace of stew from his lips.
“Mira,” he said, my name low and rough, like a promise.
I swallowed, my fingers curling into my palm. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
The moment stretched, dangerously close to something I wasn’t sure I could stop.
He didn’t take his eyes off me. Not for a second.
I could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, as though he was peeling back every flimsy layer I’d built between us. Slowly, deliberately, Gorran reached for my hand. My breath stuttered as his rough, scarred fingers wrapped around mine, warm and solid, swallowing my smaller hand like it belonged there.
I should have pulled away. Gods, I should have. But I didn’t.
He turned my palm upward, and before I could think, his mouth lowered to it. His lips pressed to my skin—warm, dry, lingering—then his tongue traced a slow line from the base of my palm to the tip of my fingers.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The air left my lungs in a shiver I couldn’t hide.
