He didn’t touch her. He stopped just short, close enough that she could feel him, close enough that his presence alone steadiedher.
“You look like hell,” hesaid.
She let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh if she’d had the strength for it. “You have a gift for reassurance.”
“Sit,” he ordered.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly recognizing the futility ofarguing. Shesat.
He moved to the sideboard and poured brandy without asking. Agenerous amount. The amber liquid caught the light as he tilted the bottle, his wrist flexing, his attention fixed on the level in the glass rather than on her. Because if he looked at her now, he wasn’t sure he’d keep the distance he’d fought so hard to maintain.
He crossed back to her and set the glass in front of her with a soft clink that sounded too loud in the quietroom.
“Drink,” he said.
“I don’t—”
“Drink,” he repeated, closer now, his voice low and unyielding. “You’re in shock, whether you want to admit it or not. This will help.”
She hesitated, her gaze flicking from the glass to his face, as if debating whether this was an order she could afford to refuse. The space between them became charged, dense with awareness. Finally, she wrapped her fingers around the glass.
Her hand trembled.
He noticed the way her knuckles tightened, the way her thumb slid along the cool crystal as if grounding herself. His own hand lingered a fraction too long near hers before he pulled it back, the near-contact sharp enough to make hisbreath hitch.
Her hand was unsteady.
His wasn’t.
As she lifted the glass, his fingers tightened briefly around the base to steady it, an automatic correction.She froze, her gaze dropping to where his palm cupped the glass.The Dante Brand burned there, stark against hisskin.
Her breath left her in a sharp, audible rush.”You,” she said.He followed her stare. He didn’t pull away.”You have one, too,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
Her eyes lifted slowly, dark and furious and something else he didn’t have a name for yet. The glass trembled in her grip. “Then tell me what it is,” she demanded. “Tell me what it means. Tell me why I have one too.”
He stepped closer.”It isn’t something that’s supposed to happen easily,” he said. “Or often.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s a boundary.”
She tossed back the brandy and slammed the glass down, surging to her feet. “I don’t get boundaries,” she snapped. “Not when this—” she gestured betweenthem, sharp and unguarded “—is happening to my body without my consent.”
His restraint slipped, just a fraction.”You think I asked for it?” he shotback.
That stopped her.She stared at him, chest rising fast now, the space between them charged and volatile.”When did yours appear?” she asked.
He held her gaze, long enough that she knew he wasn’t going to soften it for her. “Two weeks ago.”
Her breath caught, sharp and involuntary.
Memory slammed into her face, raw and immediate. His mouth. His hands. The way she’d trusted him without hesitation, without question. The way he’d looked at her afterward, unreadable and intent.
The awareness hit them both at once, not as a thought but as a certainty, brutal in how little room it left for denial.The air between them went hot, thickening as if something unseen had snapped taut, pulling them toward the same undeniable truth.
“You knew,” she said, softer now. “You’ve known this whole time.”
