“This?” His voice drops lower, rougher, vibrating in a way that sends shivers cascading down my spine.
“Us.”
The word hangs in the air, small but immense in its implications. Us. Not handler and subordinate. Not protector and protected. Something equal. Something real.
“There are a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he sways closer, drawn by the same invisible force pulling me toward him. I can feel the heat of his body, smell the subtle shift in his scent as desire edges out restraint.
“Name one that matters more than how we feel.” My voice doesn’t waver, even as butterflies take flight in my stomach.
Luke exhales slowly. His breath is warm against my face, carrying the faint hint of mint and coffee.
“Your mother will have me reassigned. Or worse.”
“I won’t let her.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, softening the hard line of his jaw. “You think you can stop the Shadowhand?”
“I think she underestimates what I’m capable of.” I close the last of the distance between us, reach for his hand. His skin iswarm against mine, strong fingers engulfing my smaller ones. The texture of his palm tells stories, a map of scars and hardened spots from weapons training, from survival, from centuries of living. “I’m not the same person who left Aurora two weeks ago.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “You’re not. But your mother is an important woman.”
“Are you afraid of her?” I frown.
“She is an elder.” His voice is firm. “She deserves respect.”
“And me?” I tilt my head. “What do I deserve?”
“Oh, Ember,” he murmurs. “You deserveeverything.”
“Then give it to me,” I whisper. I tug gently, leading him toward the bedroom. His resistance is token at best, body following mine willingly while his mind still struggles with duty and propriety. The sound of our breathing seems unnaturally loud in the quiet room, syncing into a shared rhythm.
“Are you sure?” he asks, pausing in the doorway. The question carries weight beyond the obvious; he’s asking if I’m sure about everything. About defying my mother. About choosing him. About whatever comes after.
I turn to face him, the certainty inside me as solid as bedrock.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” My voice has a depth to it I’ve never heard before—a woman’s voice, not a girl’s.
Something shifts in his expression, the last barrier falling away. His eyes darken to midnight, hungry but patient as I pull my sweater over my head, standing before him in a plain cotton bra. The cool air raises goosebumps across my exposed skin, tiny bumps that catch the dim light. The heat building inside keeps me from feeling cold, my power responding to my emotions, coursing beneath the surface in slow, languid waves.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Luke watches me, his gaze a physical caress that leaves tingling paths wherever it travels. Unlike our desperate encounter in the mountains, this feels different.Sacred, almost. I’m choosing this—choosing him—without fear or coercion or adrenaline clouding my judgment.
He strips off his shirt, revealing the topography of muscle and tanned flesh I’d glimpsed before. My mouth practically waters as I run my eyes over his taut torso, down the tight lines of his abs to the top of his pants.
I step forward, fingers tracing the ridges of fresh scars, evidence of what he endured to reach me in that facility. Evidence of his sacrifice. The texture of his skin is smooth and warm, a sensation that makes my fingertips hypersensitive.
The bullet wound is the only injury that hasn’t fully healed yet, a fresh bandage marring the skin of his shoulder. I stroke the gauze, the coarse texture so different from the warm silk of his skin.
“Does it hurt?” I murmur, palm flat against his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart. The rhythm increases under my touch, a subtle but unmistakable response.
“Not anymore,” he answers, his voice gruff with restraint. His hand comes up to cover mine, the heat of his palm seeping into my flesh.
He hisses when I lean forward and press my lips to his chest, then reach down to unbuckle his belt. Each piece of clothing comes off deliberately. Not the frantic tearing from our mountain shelter, but something considered, thoughtful. The whisper of fabric against skin. The soft thud of his belt hitting the floor. The catch of his breath when I stand before him completely naked.
When we’re finally bare before each other, I push him gently back onto the bed, straddling him as I had before. But this time the energy is different; I’m in control, exploring, discovering. The heavy muscles of his shoulders. The dark buds of his nipples. The light smattering of hair from his chest down to hisnavel. The sheets beneath him are cool and crisp, rustling with our movements.
His hands wander too, tracing paths over my ribcage, cupping the weight of my breasts. He lifts up and takes my nipple in his mouth, making my back arch when his tongue swirls around it.
By the time he slides his hand down my belly and presses his thumb over the nub of my clit, I’m drenched with need.
