We cook eggs with too much cheese and eat standing at the counter while Lucky stares like he’s never been fed. When Draco’s sleeve brushes my arm, I don’t flinch. The heat moves through me like sound in a struck glass. His breath hitches, quiet but certain. Recognition.
"Tomorrow," he says, rinsing bowls. "You pick a place."
"For what?"
"A place you choose. Somewhere you want to stand and saythis is mine."
My face heats. I think of the locked building at the edge of the property. I hear myself say, "Maybe."
"Maybe is good," he says. His expression shifts—something I can't quite read, but somehow softer than before.
My boots strike the gravel with a sound I know belongs to me. In my tote, the change rustles where it should—in the inside pocket. Safe. Waiting. Mine.
Chapter Thirteen
Draco
The last few days have blurred together in a way that feels almost dangerous—small lessons, late-night conversations, Lucky wedging himself between us like a chaperone with opinions. But tonight… tonight feels different.
It’s the evening after our trip into the city. The cottage is quiet after dinner, the kind of quiet that sharpens my senses instead of soothing them. Lucky has flopped in his usual spot, snoring softly, paws twitching as he dreams. The lamplight throws warm shadows across the small room. And Charity—she’s still moving around, putting dishes away, smoothing surfaces already clean. Nervous hands.
She doesn’t look at me, but I feel her awareness like heat on my skin. After years living on the streets, in arenas, in barracks, in dark cells, I know when another body is tuned to mine. I should leave her be. I should stretch out on the couch, close my eyes, and pretend I don’t notice.
But I do notice.
And I can’t pretend.
She turns at last, catching me watching. Her breath hitches. My pulse answers as if it’s tied to hers with invisible thread. I stand slowly, giving her time to move if she wants. She doesn’t. Her chin lifts, not much, just enough. That small defiance pierces me more than a sword ever could.
I cross the space between us.
"Charity." Her name is rough on my tongue. A prayer, a warning, both.
"Yes?" Her voice is barely sound.
I lift my hand, pause, let her see it. She doesn’t flinch. When my fingertips brush her jaw, her eyes flutter closed. The world narrows to that contact—the warmth of her skin, the leap of her pulse beneath it. I lean down, slowly, until my lips find hers.
It’s fire and it’s ruin and it’s everything I’ve been holding back. She makes a small sound, a broken plea that undoes me. My other hand slides into her hair, tilting her to me. Her arms circle my waist, tentative, then stronger, pulling me in. The kiss deepens until I’m dizzy.
I break away just enough to breathe, my forehead pressed to hers. "Tell me to stop."
Her hands fist in my shirt. "Don’t you dare."
The hunger that surges through me nearly buckles my knees. I kiss her again, harder, tasting her gasp, her surrender. We stumble backward together until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of the couch. She sits, pulling me down with her, and suddenly we’re a tangle of limbs, of mouths, of frantic, desperate want.
Her sweater rides up, and my hand meets bare skin. Soft, hot, perfect. She arches into me, a shocked moan tearing from her throat. My body responds with painful urgency. I force myself to slow, to remember she’s new to this. My thumb brushes lazy circles along her ribs, coaxing, asking.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "More," she whispers.
I give her more. My mouth trails fire down her throat, over the quick hammer of her pulse, across her collarbone. Her skin tastes of salt and faint citrus, of life itself. She trembles under me, not in fear, in discovery. The sound of it—her breathless gasp—nearly undoes me.
I push the sweater higher, over her head, leaving her in a thin camisole that does nothing to shield her from my gaze. She covers herself instinctively, arms folding across her chest. My heart twists.
"Don’t hide from me," I murmur. I take her wrists gently, pull them away, kissing her palms like they’re relics. "You’re beautiful."
Her eyes glisten, but she nods. She lets me look. More than that, she lets me touch—my hands skating reverent paths up her sides, down her arms, across the soft skin of her stomach. She sighs my name like it’s something precious.
Her mouth finds mine again, urgent and hungry. The kiss lengthens, our mouths exploring with growing need. My hand cups her breast through the thin fabric, and she gasps against my lips. I stroke with my thumb, learning the shape of her, feeling her nipple peak beneath the cotton.
