Her fingers curl into his shirt.
Their foreheads almost touch.
Time fractures.
Isla becomes acutely aware of everything at once: his grip at her waist, the hard line of his body inches from hers, the sound of his breath breaking control.Her pulse stutters, loud enough she’s sure he can feel it.
She shouldn’t lean in.
She does anyway.
Callum’s hand tightens, fingers digging in like he’s bracing himself against a fall.His head dips, just enough that she feels the promise of his mouth, the threat of it.
This isn’t curiosity.
This is collision.
For one suspended heartbeat, she knows, knows with absolute certainty, that if he kisses her, nothing in this castle will remain intact.
Not the search.
Not the boundaries.
Not either of them.
This is not slow.
This is not careful.
This is the kind of kiss that ruins things.
Callum leans in?—
And stops.
The moment shatters.
He drops his hand like it burned him and steps back hard enough to knock into the desk.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
Isla’s pulse roars in her ears.Her skin feels too tight, too alive.
She stares at him, breath unsteady.“That?—”
“Shouldn’t have happened,” he says sharply.
“But it almost did.”
He looks at her then, studies her, something wild and furious and undone flashing across his face.
“That’s the problem,” he says.“It almost did.”
He reaches past her, plucks the cassette from her hand, and sets it back in the drawer with finality.
“This search,” he says, voice rough, “just got dangerous.”
And before she can answer, before she can think, he turns and leaves the room.
