“And you haven’t slept?”
“No.”
The poison. He was still fighting it; I could see it in the slight tremor of his hands, the way he held himself too still. I could stop time, but I couldn’t heal. Not like Serenity could.
“You need to rest.” I swung my legs off the cot. My muscles still ached, but they held. “I’ll take over.”
He sighed. “We’re not having this conversation again.”
“This is different. You made me rest?—”
“And now I’m making sure you stay safe.” His silver eyes finally met mine, weary but unyielding. “That was the deal, Alice.”
“I know.” I cupped his cheeks, his stubble rough against my palms. His skin was warm—too warm. The poison was still working through him, whether he admitted it or not. “Now it’s my turn to keep you safe.”
“Alice—”
“You’re burning up.” I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone. “You need rest as much as I did. Maybe more.”
His silver eyes searched my face. The argument was there—I could see it forming on his lips. The stubbornness. The need to protect me at the cost of himself.
I didn’t give him the chance.
I kissed him, soft at first, my lips barely grazing his, stopping his protest before it could form. He stilled—then his fingers tangled in my hair, calloused tips scraping my scalp, dragging me closer as the kiss deepened into something urgent and raw.
Hunger replaced exhaustion, sharp and startling as a slap, heat flooding through my veins like wildfire, and for a second I let myself drown in it. In him. In the taste of coffee and mint on his tongue, in the rasp of stubble against my chin, in the quiet sound he made deep in his throat.
When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
“Rest,” I whispered against his lips. “I’ll keep watch. And if you argue with me, I’ll stop time and make you.”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That’s fighting dirty.”
“I learned from the best.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alice
Darius slid his hand behind my neck and pulled me close again. His kiss deepened—slower this time, more deliberate. Heat pooled in my chest, spreading lower.
Then his weight shifted. He rolled me gently onto my back, never breaking the kiss, his body hovering over mine. I met him without faltering this time—my muscles steady, my body no longer betraying me.
He slipped his hand beneath my shirt. When his palm found my breast, I groaned, arching into his touch. My hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath my fingers.
His breath hitched, and not in the way that made heat curl through me. He was still exhausted, still recovering, still pushing himself far past what his body could handle.
A knot tightened in my throat. I wanted him—gods, I did—but not like this. Not if it meant hurting him.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I mumbled against his lips. “You’re not well enough.”
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. That smoldering heat was back, burning through the exhaustion, the poison, everything.
“Watch me.”
It hit me like a wave: want and fear tangled so tight I couldn't separate them. I should pull back. I didn't.
He rolled up my shirt, the cotton fabric bunching around my collarbone, and his warm mouth found my breast. I gasped at the sudden contrast between the cool air and his heat. His tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around my nipple, each movement sending electric currents down my spine.
