Her expression shuttered. She nodded once—the kind of nod people give when they’re trying to be brave—then turned without another word and slipped into the washroom, closing the door.
All I could do was sit there, hollow, aching, and furious with myself. I waited, hoping she might call for me. Maybe I could fix it if I stood still long enough. As if holding my breath could somehow undo the last few minutes and make me brave. It didn’t.
When she finally emerged, her gaze flicked toward me once—guarded, unreadable.
She crossed to the bed and slid beneath the covers without a word, facing away.
“Quinn, I?—”
“Please,” she said, her voice flat.
The word hit harder than anything the goblins had thrown at me. “I’m sorry,” I said anyway.
I stood and moved to the armchair, wanting to give her as much space as possible while staying in the room. Sitting down, I searched for the right words—something that would explain without sounding like an excuse. Straining my ears, I could tell by her rapid breathing that she wasn’t asleep yet.
Gathering all the nerve I could muster, I rose from the armchair, crossed the room, and stood at her side of the bed. “Come with me,” I said quietly.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
I softened my tone further. “Please.”
A beat passed.
Then, she sat up slowly. Her eyes met mine, brimming with questions and suspicion.
I held out a hand.
Let me show you.
To my utter relief, she placed her hand in mine.
The balcony creaked softly beneath our feet as I guided her outside. Mist coiled around the railings. Far off, birds trilled their sleepy songs. The canopy stretched in a tapestry woven of moonlight and shadow, clouds drifting lazily across the scatter of stars.
Quinn leaned against the railing, hair stirring in the breeze. She whispered, almost to herself, “It is beautiful.”
“Nothing compares to you.” The words slipped free before I could stop them.
When her eyes met mine, my chest tightened. I couldn’t stand to be apart from her a moment longer. I stepped into her space, close enough for her breath to mingle with mine. Close enough to fall. But I’d already been falling. Long before this night. Long before I was ready to admit it to myself.
My palm rose to cup her cheek, thumb grazing the curve of her jaw. Her skin was warm beneath my touch, softer than it had any right to be after the horrors of the night. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t move away. Emboldened, I slid my other hand to the small of her back, bringing her closer.
I bent my head and kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle.
It couldn’t be.
The moment our mouths met, it was as if everything we’d been holding back—fear, fury, longing—ignited at once. She moaned softly against my lips, and I drank in the sound with a hunger I could no longer leash. Her hands rose, clutching at my shoulders, then sliding to the back of my neck, anchoring herselfto me. My grip tightened at her waist, pulling her flush against me. Her lips were warm and soft and urgent beneath mine. I angled my head, deepening it further, tasting salt and heat and every breathy sound. She met me with equal fervor, her lips moving against mine, answering every ragged beat of my heart with her own.
The wildness eased into something quieter. My hands slid up her back, cradling her as though she were something fragile I’d been entrusted to keep safe. I kissed her again—softer this time. Less need. More devotion. She tilted her chin, asking without words, and I gave her more.
When we finally parted, we were both breathless. Her lips were flushed, her eyes wide and luminous in the moonlight. I pressed my forehead to hers, holding her close.
“Did that feel,” I whispered, “like I didn’t want to kiss you?”
A soft, stunned laugh slipped out of her. “You have more than proven your point.”
She was still smiling when I kissed her again.
