I don’t doubt that. His torso is marked with scars—some old, some relatively recent. Evidence of centuries of combat.
My hands are steadier than I feel. Being this close to him brings back memories I’ve been trying not to think about.
Heat floods my face. I focus harder on cleaning the wound.
“You’re hurt too,” he says quietly.
I look up. He’s watching my face with unsettling intensity. “I’m fine.”
“Your shoulder.” His hand comes up. Gentle. Touches where my shirt is torn and there’s dried blood visible. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing—”
But he’s already carefully pulling the fabric aside to examine the wound. His fingers are warm against my skin. The touch sends heat through me that has nothing to do with injury.
We’re close now. Very close. His face inches from mine as he examines the cut on my shoulder. I can feel his breath. Can see the way his pupils dilate slightly when our eyes meet.
The air between us shifts. Charged with tension that’s been building since we got in the truck. Since we escaped together. Since I chose him over everything else.
“Nadia.” My name is rough in his throat.
I know I shouldn’t do this. Know we have bigger problems. Know that last time we were this close, I walked away and shattered something between us that might not be repairable.
But my body remembers his. Remembers exactly how he felt. Remembers the sounds he made when I came apart around him. Remembers wanting him to mark me with an intensity that terrified me.
His hand is still on my shoulder. Warm. Steady.
“We shouldn’t—” I start.
“I know.” But he doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
His hand slides from my shoulder to cup my face. Gentle. Asking permission without words, the same way he did in the training facility before everything went wrong.
This time, I don’t pretend I don’t want this. Don’t lie to myself about what I feel.
I lean into his touch.
He kisses me slowly. Carefully. Like he’s afraid I’ll pull away again. Like he’s giving me every opportunity to stop this before it goes further.
I don’t stop it. I kiss him back with everything I’ve been denying. My hands find his shoulders—careful of his injury. His other hand finds my waist, pulls me closer until I’m pressed against him.
The kiss deepens. His tongue traces my lower lip. I open for him. Taste him. Let myself want him without guilt or logic or the complications that stand between us.
My wolf surges with fierce approval.
Finally. Mate. Yes. This is right.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Foreheads touching. Neither of us quite ready to let go.
“What happened between us—” he starts.
“I know.” I pull back enough to meet his eyes. “I walked away. Told you it didn’t mean anything.”
“Didn’t it?” The question is vulnerable. Raw.
“It did.” Honest. “It meant something. I just wasn’t ready to admit what.”
