She leans in, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of her proximity. The scent of her—underneath the smoke and fear-sweat and chaos of battle—is stillher. Wildflowers and engine grease and something sweet I’ve never been able to name.
My scales flicker with heat I don’t have the energy to suppress.
Her fingers brush my shoulder as she peels back the bandage, and I shiver. Not from pain.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, misreading my reaction. “I know it’s tender—”
“It’s not that.”
She stills. Looks up at me through her lashes. Pink strands fall across her face, and I want desperately to brush them back.
“Oh.” The word is barely a breath.
Through the bond, I feel her awareness shift. Feel the moment she realizes what her touch is doing to me even now, broken and burned and barely able to lift my head.
She should pull away. Any sensible person would.
Instead, her fingers linger on my skin. Trace the edge of the bandage. Slide down my arm in a path that has nothing to do with medical care and everything to do with the current crackling between us.
“Polly.” Her name is a warning and a plea.
“You’re supposed to be resting.” But she doesn’t stop. Her touch trails across my scales, and I watch them respond—flushing deeper gold, rippling with heat that betrays everything I’m feeling. “The healer was very clear about no strenuous activity.”
“Then stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” Pure innocence. Absolute lie. Her fingers find a pattern of scales near my hip, and I bite back a sound that would embarrass us both. “I’m checking your dressings. Very professional.”
“You are a menace.”
“You love it.”
Gods help me, I do.
I catch her wrist before she can drive me completely mad. Her pulse jumps under my fingers, and the bond sparks with mutual want that makes my head spin.
“I almost lost you.” The words come out before I can stop them. Raw. Unguarded. “I almost—”
She silences me with a kiss.
It’s soft at first. Gentle in a way she rarely is. Her free hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone, and she kisses me like I’m something precious. Something she’s afraid to break.
I’m not fragile. I refuse to be fragile.
I pull her closer despite my body’s protests, and she makes a small sound of surprise as she ends up perched on the edge of my bed. The new position puts her above me, pink hair falling around us like a curtain, and I reach up to thread my fingers through the tangled strands.
“Rynn—” She pulls back just enough to speak against my lips. “You’re injured. You need to—”
“I needyou.”
The words hang between us. True in ways that go beyond the physical. Beyond the bond. I have needed this woman since the moment I saw her—pink-haired and irreverent and absolutely unimpressed by everything I was supposed to be.
She searches my face. Whatever she finds makes her breath catch.
“Well.” Her voice has gone husky. “Since you asked so nicely.”
She kisses me again, and this time there’s nothing soft about it. All the fear and relief and desperate love we’ve been holding back pours out between us. My hands slide down her back, pulling her closer, and she makes a sound against my mouth that sends heat coiling through my ruined body.
I shouldn’t be capable of wanting anything right now. Every muscle screams protest. Every nerve is raw and oversensitized.
