"If I have to be yours, then you have to be mine.”
And so here I am, saying things old-world-me wouldnevereven have considered saying.
“That's the deal. That's my condition."
His eyes crinkle at the corners. That almost-smile.
"Those are your terms?"
"Those are my terms."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I show my dimple to every guard in this house."
He makes a sound. Low, almost startled. It takes me a second to realize he's laughing. A single huff of air and a crinkling around his eyes that transforms his whole face.
"Agreed," he says.
"Good."
"Good."
We're both smiling now. Or I'm smiling and he's doing his almost-smile thing, and I’m 99% convinced that I’ve lost my mind. I mean...I just virtually agreed to marry a total royal stranger.Didn’t I?
My breath catches when he suddenly stands, and all I can do is gulp as he moves around the table. Slow. Deliberate. Each step bringing him closer until he's right beside my chair.
"Stand up."
It's not a request. But his voice is softer than I've heard it before.
I stand.
We're close now. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He's so much taller than me.
His hand comes up. Touches my jaw.
His thumb traces along my cheekbone, slow, and I stop breathing.
"You're trembling," he says.
“I’m cold.”
His other hand finds the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "You're not cold."
No. I'm not. I'm burning up from the inside.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Fifth time.
I'm still counting.
He leans in.
His breath ghosts across my lips.
I close my eyes.
