"I don't know!" The words came out sharper than intended. "I saw something that would hurt you and I moved. There's no grand reason. No hidden meaning. I just... didn't want you hurt."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by their breathing.
"You're a fool," he said finally.
"Yes, well, we've established that." She tried for levity. "The naked cuddling really drives the point home."
"This isn't cuddling. This is survival."
"Of course it is." But she could feel his heart beating against her back, faster than his calm voice suggested. "How much longer do we need to stay here?"
"Until your core temperature stabilizes. Until that warmth in your chest stops flickering like a dying candle." His arms adjusted around her, and she definitely didn't think about how perfectly she fit against him. "Until I'm certain you won't collapse the moment we return."
"And then?"
"Then we go back. You'll be examined by healers. You'll eat something warm. And you'll explain in detail what possessed you to protect me."
"I told you, I don't—"
"You will." It was a promise and a threat combined. "Because this can't happen again. I won't have you throwing yourself into danger for me. You're mine to protect, not the other way around."
The warmth in her chest pulsed at that, reaching for him with embarrassing eagerness.
"Fine," she conceded, too tired to argue. "No more protecting the immortal Forest King."
"Good." He sounded satisfied. "Now stop talking. Rest. Warm up properly."
"Bit hard to rest like this," she muttered.
"Would you prefer the alternative? Freezing to death with your dignity intact?"
No. That was the problem. Despite everything, the embarrassment, the vulnerability, the confusing intimacy of skin against skin, she didn't want to move. Didn't want to give up this warmth that went beyond physical heat.
"That's what I thought," he said when she didn't answer. "Now be quiet. Let me fix what your heroics broke."
So she did, closing her eyes and trying not to think about the way his thumb still traced absent patterns on her stomach and his breath against her neck felt like safety. How the warmth in her chest hummed contentment despite everything.
Just body heat, she told herself. Just survival.
But when his arms tightened slightly, protectively, possessively, she knew they were both lying.
His hands were moving.
That was what pulled her from sleep—not the encompassing warmth of his body against her back, but the deliberate path of his fingers. One hand had drifted from her stomach to trace the curve of her ribs, thumb brushing dangerously close to the underside of her breast. The other rested on her hip, possessive and still, like he was holding himself back from more.
Briar kept her breathing steady, feigning sleep while her mind raced. How long had he been touching her like this? Minutes? Hours? His exploration was careful, almost reverent, but there was something else, a tension in his body that spoke of barely leashed control.
She knew she should say something, protest or move away or establish boundaries. But his thumb had begun tracing devastating circles on her hip, and that warmth in her chest was reaching for him with embarrassing eagerness.
She stayed perfectly still, trying to process the situation. His body behind hers radiated tension, and she could feel evidence of his arousal pressed against her lower back. His breathing wasn't quite steady either.
A slight shift to ease the ache building between her thighs gave her away.
"I know you're awake." The words rumbled from his chest, voice wrecked like he'd been fighting this battle with himself for hours. "Your breathing changed."
"How long?" Her voice came out breathier than intended.
"Hours." The word emerged like it had been dragged from him. His hand on her ribs moved slightly higher, fingertips just brushing the curve of her breast. "Hours of you moving against me. Making those maddening little sounds in your sleep. Pressing back like you knew exactly what you were doing to me."
