Want to taste every inch of him. See if he’s as hot inside my mouth as he is everywhere else.
Instead, I turn and head back toward the village. Toward whatever cryptic conversation the old woman wants to have.
But I can’t stop thinking about the way his skin burned under my hands.
Or the gold that flared in his eyes when he looked at me.
Or the thickness of him pressing against my hip, hard and ready and mine if I wanted to take it.
Or the fact that the elder called him fire-blood like it’s a title. A classification.
Something everyone here recognizes except him.
Who are you, K?
And what happens when you finally remember?
Chapter 12
K.
I stand in the stream long after Mara disappears down the path, cold water doing absolutely nothing to cool the fire beneath my skin.
What just happened?
One moment, I was apologizing—trying to restore honor after yesterday’s violation. The next, she was touching me, kissing me, her hands trailing down my body with clear intent.
And I wanted it.
God help me, I wanted it with an intensity that bordered on madness.
Still want it. My cock throbs against my thigh, demanding I follow her back to that shelter and finish what we started.
I sink beneath the water’s surface, hoping the shock of cold will restore some semblance of control. It doesn’t. My body remains stubbornly, painfully aware of how close we came to—
Enough.
I surface, dragging air into lungs that feel too tight. This is not helpful. Mara is under my protection. Recovering from injuries that should have killed her. The last thing she needs is me losing control simply because she touched me.
Even if her touch felt like home.
Even if kissing her felt more right than anything I can remember.
Even if every instinct I possess screams that she’s mine in ways I don’t understand but can’t deny.
I force myself to focus on practical matters. Finish bathing properly. Dress. Return to the village with some measure of composure.
But the frustration gnaws at me.
Dragana knows what I am. Sees it in my eyes, feels it in the air around me. Yet she refuses to explain. Insists I must remember on my own, when I’m “ready.”
How can I be ready for knowledge I don’t possess? How can I remember what’s been taken from me?
The questions circle endlessly, offering no resolution.
I dry off briskly using my shirt, then pull on my clothes, and head back toward the village.
I find Mara in the central square, surrounded by a small group of women as she eats some sort of pastry. They’re speaking in rapid Romanian. Curious. Friendly, even.
