"It should scare you too." His thumb traced her pulse, felt it racing. "What happens between us isn't normal. Isn't safe. That warmth—"
"Recognizes you," she finished. "Reaches for you like you're—"
"Don't say it." His hand covered her mouth. "Don't say that word again."
She bit his palm, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make him jerk back with a hiss.
"Home," she said deliberately, watching his control fracture. "That's what it feels like when you touch me. Like coming home."
He slammed his hand against the wall beside her head, making her jump. But when she looked at his face, she saw something raw there. Lost.
"You can't," he said roughly. "You can't call me that. You can't make this into something it's not."
"Then what is it?"
"Ownership," he said immediately, but the word rang hollow.
"Is that why you're shaking?" She placed her hand over his heart, felt it racing to match hers. "Because you own me?"
He caught her wrist, grip just shy of painful. "Stop."
"Make me."
They stared at each other, both breathing hard, the warmth pulsing between them like a living thing. She could feel his need through that connection, feel how badly he wanted to press her against the wall and take her right there. Feel how much he hated wanting it.
A sharp knock cut through the moment.
They sprang apart, Eliam smoothing his appearance with practiced ease while she tried to catch her breath.
"What," Eliam snarled at the door.
"My lord." Thaine's voice, carefully neutral. "Lord Malachar has crossed the border. He'll be at the gates by sunset."
The change in Eliam was instant. All heat vanished, replaced by cold calculation.
"Malachar," he said the name like poison. "Here."
"With an entourage of twenty, my lord. Making quite a display."
Eliam's smile was icy. "Of course he is." He glanced at her, and his expression was unreadable. "We'll continue your lessons later. Wear the silver tonight. Be ready."
Then he was gone, leaving her gasping against the wall, body aching with unfulfilled need and confusion.
The warmth in her chest pulsed once, mournfully, reaching for something that was no longer there.
Chapter twenty
Briar's legs barely carried her back to her chambers. Every step reminded her of his hands, his mouth, the confession that if he'd stayed he would have taken her until they both burned to ash. The warmth still pulsed erratically in her chest, confused by the sudden separation, reaching for something that had withdrawn behind walls of ice.
She locked the door—useless gesture, but the click brought hollow comfort.
The silver dress waited on her bed like a question she couldn't answer. Not his colors. Not Arion's.
Something in between, something that suggested... what? That she existed in neutral territory? That she was unclaimed despite the marks blooming across her throat?
She lifted the fabric, watching it shift from bright silver to deep pewter in the light. Sheer layers that would hint at her form without revealing it. Beautiful and untouchable, perhaps that was the message. Or perhaps he simply couldn't bear to see her in his colors after what had happened between them. After she'd made him feel things he couldn't control.
Setting it aside, she moved to her vanity, needing to do something with her thoroughly destroyed appearance before—
