“Look at me,” he said.
She did. Firelight flickered over his face, turning his amber eyes almost molten. He looked at her like every word he’d said downstairs was true. Like she was the choice. Like he’d waited ten winters just to be here.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” she said, trying to make it light.
“Too late,” he said, not light at all.
That undid her more than anything else.
She clutched him, fingers digging into his back, legs tightening at his sides. He drove harder, gasping her name, and she let the pleasure take her again, riding it, riding him, storm and fire and lion all singing in her blood. He followed with a low, rough sound, shuddering over her, forehead pressed to hers.
For a while, they just lay there, catching their breath. The storm outside dulled, wind still fierce but muffled by the snow packed against the windows. The fire sank lower, throwing lazy orange across the room.
Dante shifted to the side so he wasn’t on her, but he didn’t let go. One arm stayed heavy across her middle. His scent wrapped around her, warm and male and familiar. His heartbeat was a slow, steady drum against her shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah.” She stared at the ceiling. “Unfortunately.”
He huffed a laugh. “Unfortunately?”
“Means I can’t blame this on adrenaline.”
“You could blame it on the storm.”
“Storm didn’t make me climb in your lap.”
“True.” He kissed her shoulder, slow.
She rolled toward him, let him pull her in. His body was a furnace. The couch was narrow, but he tucked her under his chin like he’d done it a thousand times. Snow muted the world. The fire crackled soft. Her lioness purred, finally, finally satisfied.
And that was the problem.
Because lying there, skin still buzzing, his arm heavy around her waist, it felt good. Too good. It felt like belonging. Like she’d slipped into the place she’d been avoiding for a decade.
Guilt crept in first, a thin, cold line. Hector’s smirk. Council papers on her table. Her tavern on the line. And here she was letting the man who left her wrap around her like they were mated.
Fear followed, thicker. What if he left again. What if she’d just made herself soft right when she needed to be sharp. What if choosing him once made it harder not to choose him again.
Dante’s breathing evened, warm against her hair.
Maeve stared into the dying fire, heart too full and too vulnerable, and told herself this was still her choice.
She just wished it didn’t feel so much like falling.
24
DANTE
Dante woke to silence and an empty couch.
The fire had died to ash. Gray morning light filtered through snow-covered windows. And Maeve was gone, her scent still clinging to the cushions where they'd fallen asleep tangled together.
He sat up, muscles protesting. The apartment felt hollow without her presence. Too quiet. Like she'd taken all the warmth with her when she left.
"Maeve?" His voice echoed unanswered.
He found his clothes scattered across the floor, evidence of last night written in discarded fabric and the lingering smell of sex and satisfaction. He dressed quickly, checking the bedroom door. Closed. The bathroom. Empty.
