I shiver, then change the grip on the sword until the blade points down. I hold it out to him. “You don’t have to leave.” I pause. “I shouldn’t have pointed this at you.”
“On the contrary. I’m rather fond of your greetings.” He takes the sword and tosses it on the bed behind him. That hand that stroked my cheek buries itself in my hair, and I half expect him to pull me into a kiss.
He doesn’t. He pulls me close, his hands strong yet gentle, his free arm going around my back. He leans down to place a kiss under my ear. “What do you want?”
I don’t know. I want to stop feeling like I can’t trust anyone.
I hesitate, tense for a moment, worried he’ll turn it into more. Jax’s words about Alek using me are still loud in my thoughts.
But Alek simply adjusts his arms until he’s doing nothing more than holding me. I hear the breath ease out of his chest. My head relaxes against his shoulder.
What would you trust, if not all my actions up to this point?
He’s right. I’m the one who always greets him with a weapon, with a sharp word, with wary distrust.
He’s the one who shows up with silver, repairing the barn, bringing gifts for Nora, sending nobles to the bakery so we have enough money.
He’s the one who shows up toprotectme, expressing his worry instead of making demands.
With a start, I realize he’s been protecting me since the first day I saw him, on the steps of the palace. On the day my father died.
Within the circle of his arms, my body has begun to relax against him, but he holds up my weight effortlessly. He’s stroking the hair down my back, and I don’t ever want it to stop. I take a deep breath for what feels like the first time in months. Years. Ever.
My face is pressed to his shoulder, and I inhale the warm scent of his skin. I can’t remember the last time anyoneheldme, but it’s very nice. My sleeping shift is thin, and I can feel every buckle, every weapon, every ridge in the leather strapped to his body. I’m keenly aware of his size, the strength in his arms. When his hand drifts to the small of my back for the dozenth time, it ignites a small flame in my abdomen, and I suck in a tiny breath.
He notices immediately. I’m not sure how I can tell, but there’s a sudden alertness to his body. A quickening of his pulse. This time,when he strokes a hand down my back, his hand slips lower, pulling a true gasp from my mouth.
He hesitates. Waiting. Assessing, his breath warm against my temple.
I tighten my grip on his neck, my palms suddenly damp. He takes that for an answer. Without warning, he dips a bit, his hand hiking the length of my shift, his hand sweeping the length of my calf, followed by a brief stroke over my knee, and then a slow agonizing trail up the line of my thigh.
His mouth hovers over mine now, his eyes glittering in the darkness, his fingers so light they’re barely touching me. “Yes?” he whispers.
I can’t think. I can’t wonder. I can’t breathe. I’m nodding vigorously, but he captures my mouth with his own, and suddenly, I’m drowning. Everything is too warm, too intense. A fire, waiting to burn. Then his fingers find me, and the only thing holding me upright is my grip on his shoulders. Somehow, at some point, he’s unlaced the front of my shift, because his mouth closes on my breast, and between that and his talented fingers, I cry out.
“Shh,” he says, laughing under his breath. “If you wake your sister, we’ll have no shortage of questions.”
“Right,” I gasp. “Right. Yes.” I still can’t think. I’m not even sure which way is up. His hand has slipped to the safer territory of my hip, and I’m pulling him closer, as if every inch of my skin is longing for him.
“Does your door lock?” he murmurs into my ear.
I nod without thinking. Suddenly, he’s gone, and I’m left shivering in the dark.
A scrape of wood precedes a click of metal, and then he’s back, tugging at the shift until I raise my arms.
But then I remember myself—almost too late.
I’m choking on my breath as I say, “Wait. Wait. Nora.”
His voice is rough and low in my ear. “The door is locked.”
“I know—I know—still—”
“As you say.” He tugs me, still dressed, toward the bed, where he sits on the edge, then pulls me to straddle his knees. My shift hikes up again, but now I’m more aware, more vulnerable. There’s a knife hilt under my left thigh, cold against my skin. The air finds every exposed bit of skin, and I flush, self-conscious. I want to tug at the fabric, to cover myself.
But Alek’s hands are soft on my face, and he’s kissing me, gentle and sure. He tastes like cinnamon and sugar and—
I jerk back. “You ate some of my apple tarts,” I whisper fiercely.
