"Tell me you don't feel it." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Tell me that spark when we touched meant nothing. That your lioness doesn't recognize mine. Tell me I'm alone in this and I'll walk away right now."
She stared at him, fire and shadow playing across her face. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it would be a lie." The admission came like pulling teeth. "And I'm tired of lying."
The air between them crackled, magic and heat and ten years of wanting compressed into the space of three feet. Her scent wrapped around him, sweet and wild and absolutely Maeve. His lion roared, demanding he close the gap.
Dante moved first, stepping into her space.
Maeve met him halfway.
The kiss was slow. Aching. Years of longing poured into the press of lips and the slide of tongues. She tasted like whiskey and fire and coming home. Her hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer while her lioness purred against his chest.
Dante cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones while he memorized every sensation. The softness of her mouth. The small sound she made when he deepened the kiss. The way she fit against him like she'd been made for this.
Like they'd been made for this.
His lion settled, finally understanding what it had been missing.
Her.
Always her.
Maeve broke away with a gasp, stepping back fast enough that she nearly stumbled. Her eyes blazed gold, her breathing ragged, and her expression caught between want and fear.
"Not again," she whispered.
"Maeve—"
"No." She held up a hand, warding him off. "That was a mistake."
"Didn't feel like a mistake."
"Well, it was." She turned away, busying herself with adding logs to the fire that didn't need adding. "The power will come back on soon. You should go."
"I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are." She didn't look at him, all her focus on the fire. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
"Like what? Kiss me again?"
"Like believe you'll stay this time." Her voice cracked. "Like let myself hope for something that's just going to hurt when you leave."
The words gutted him. "Maeve?—"
"Go, Dante." She straightened, shoulders rigid. "Please."
He stood there, torn between pushing and respecting her walls. Between fighting for what he wanted and giving her the space she needed.
His lion snarled, wanting to stay.
But Dante was more than his lion.
And Maeve deserved the choice.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I'm going. But this conversation isn't over."
