He could’ve seen her too.
The fire had been behind her as well.
Her steps faltered.
She remembered the look on his face when he’d returned—flushed, his voice low, his eyes avoiding hers.
He’d seen.
He’d definitely seen.
Her heart gave a traitorous, breathless thump.
TEMPTATION
Rather than look at Dash, Ambrosia walked past and ducked straight into the tent, Mr. Dog following at her heels.
She didn’t say a word.
Dash exhaled slowly. It certainly hadn’t taken long for her to realize…
He'd expected a blush. Hoped for a shy smile. A whispered joke about the fickleness of firelight, and how it had caught them both.
Instead? Silence. Retreat.
She was burning with embarrassment.
L’enfer….
He didn’t blame her. He’d meant to offer her privacy—had believed he’d done just that—and still, somehow, he’d caught sight of her. Soft limbs in the starlight. The fall of her hair. That brief moment she’d stood so still…
He ran a hand through his hair and walked a slow lap around the fire, muttering to himself.
By the time he returned to the tent, he had pushed as much of the memory as possible out of his head.
And yet, still, the moment his hand touched the canvas flap, he felt the weight of her awareness like a charge in the air. She lay curled beneath the quilt, too still to be sleeping.
He crawled in as carefully as he could, but of course, Mr. Dog chose that precise moment to betray him.
The dog gave a happy little grunt and wriggled his long body up and over the space between them. Dash let out a low laugh.
“Your son is escaping,” he said gently, hoping to coax her back into a better mood.
Nothing.
Mr. Dog, thoroughly uninterested in keeping the peace, walked three full circles before collapsing beside him like a sack of flour.
Dash reached out to stroke the mutt’s soft ears, but his eyes were trained on the shadowed lump of Ambrosia’s body—turned firmly away from him.
“Ah, princesse,” he murmured, “don’t be embarrassed.”
She didn’t answer.
He shifted slightly and touched her arm. Her breath caught—and then a sound, soft and aching, escaped her throat. “…I’m wicked,” she said, her voice catching.
His chest squeezed. “Non, princesse.” A rueful smile tugged at his mouth—he could not help it. If there was a devil in this moment, it was him, not her.
At the soft urging of his hand, she turned toward him, only to bury her face in her palms. “I’ve never… I’m not…”
