I struck.
Not hard enough to hurt, just fast enough to test his reflexes. His hand came up instinctively, catching my wrist mid-strike with fingers that were strong and sure and far too gentle for combat. The contact burned. A brand of heat that raced up my arm and lodged somewhere in my chest.
“What are you doing?” His voice had gone rough, his grip tightening fractionally on my wrist.
“Hand to hand combat,” I said, twisting out of his grip and sweeping low, aiming for his legs. “Wasn’t that the agreement?”
He stepped back just in time, his movements fluid despite the tension riding his shoulders. I pressed forward, throwing a combination that he blocked easily.
I lunged again, this time managing to get inside his guard. For a heartbeat we were close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the way his pupils had blown wide, could watch his throat work as he swallowed.
“Isara.”
I didn’t step back.
Instead, I pressed closer. A deliberate shift that brought my body flush against his, close enough to feel the thunder of his pulse beneath my palm where I pressed it against his chest. His heart wasracing. Absolutely hammering against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest.
Good.
“My name sounds different when you say it like that,” I murmured, tilting my head to look up at him. “Like a warning. Or a plea. I can’t quite decide which.”
His throat worked. Swallowed. His hands hovered at his sides like he couldn’t decide whether to push me away or pull me closer, tension vibrating through every line of his body.
Then his fingers found my waist—tentative at first, like he was waiting for me to bolt. When I didn’t move, didn’t pull away,his grip tightened. Just enough to feel the heat of his palms burning through the thin fabric of my training clothes.
His jaw clenched so hard I heard teeth grind. “This isn’t—” He cut himself off, eyes searching mine with an intensity that should have been illegal.
Stars, he was flustered. Actually, genuinely flustered. This devastating bastard who could fold reality like paper was coming undone because I’d pressed against him and touched his chest.
How fucking delicious.
“This isn’t what?” I prompted, letting my fingers trace lower, following the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. “Combat? You’re right. This is far more interesting than combat.”
His breath hitched. His fingers tightened on my waist, enough pressure to bruise, to brand, to make my breath shudder. “You shouldn’t?—”
“Shouldn’t what?” I was enjoying this far too much. Watching him unravel. Watching that perfect control splinter like glass beneath my touch. “Touch you? But you’re touching me, Varyth. Seems only fair.”
“That’s not—” Another swallow. Another flex of those fingers at my waist. “I’m not—this isn’t?—”
He could barely form complete sentences. Somehow,I’dreduced this articulate, infuriating man to broken words and ragged breathing just by standing close and putting my hands on him.
I should have felt triumphant. Victorious. Like I’d won.
But there was something else in his eyes. It looked almost like... pain.
“I can’t,” he said finally, the words wrenched from somewhere deep. “I can’t do this with you.”
“Can’t?” I pressed closer, defiant, refusing to let him retreat. “Or won’t?”
“Both.” His hands were on my waist, his grip desperate now. Like he was holding on and trying to push away at the same time. “Neither. I don’t?—”
“You don’t what?” Frustration bled into my voice. “You don’t want this? Because your body is telling me something very different.”
His laugh was bitter, broken. “Of course I want—” He stopped, his gaze sliding away from mine. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” My palm was pressed against his chest, feeling that frantic heartbeat. “What’s stopping you?”
“You are.” The words were quiet. Devastating. “You’re what’s stopping me.”
