I cut myself off, the words dying in my throat.
"Harder to what?" His voice had dropped, soft and dangerous.
"Harder to hate you."
The admission hung between us, raw and honest and terrifying. I heard him set down his glass, heard the chair scrape as he stood. Then he was beside me, and his hand was on my shoulder, and I was rising to face him without consciously deciding to move.
We stood inches apart, the warm night air thick between us. His hand slid from my shoulder to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. The touch was gentle, questioning—nothing like the iron grip of the man who'd kidnapped me.
"Then stop," he murmured.
"Stop what?"
"Hating me." His thumb traced along my jaw, tilting my face up. "Stop fighting so hard. Just for tonight. Just for one moment."
I should have pulled away. Should have reminded him—reminded myself—of everything he'd done. But his touch was warm, and his eyes were green fire in the starlight, and I was so tired of fighting.
"I don't know how," I whispered.
"Then let me show you."
He lowered his head, slowly enough that I could have stopped him. Could have stepped back, broken the contact, retreated to the safety of my anger.
I didn't.
His lips brushed mine—soft, tentative, a question rather than a demand. I heard myself make a small sound, something between surprise and surrender. Then his hand tightened in my hair, and the kiss deepened, and I stopped thinking entirely.
He tasted like wine and want and something darker underneath—hunger held on a tight leash, barely controlled. My hands came up to grip his shirt, not pushing away but pulling closer. His other arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me against his chest until I could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric, steady and strong and nothing like the chaos exploding through my own body.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"Gabrielle," he said, and my name had never sounded like that before—rough, reverent, like a prayer and a curse combined.
I touched my lips, still tingling from the contact. "I should go."
"Yes." But he didn't release me. His arm stayed around my waist, his forehead resting against mine. "You should."
Neither of us moved.
"This doesn't change anything," I said, and even I could hear how weak it sounded.
"I know."
"I still—I can't just forget what you did. Who you are."
"I'm not asking you to forget." He pulled back enough to meet my eyes, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath catch. "I'm asking you to see all of it. The monster and the man. And decide for yourself which one matters more."
He released me then, stepping back to put space between us. The absence of his warmth felt like a loss, which frightened me more than the kiss itself.
"Goodnight, Gabrielle."
I walked away on unsteady legs, not trusting myself to speak. At the door, I paused and looked back.
He was still standing where I'd left him, watching me with those green eyes that saw too much. The starlight caught the angles of his face, making him look like something out of a myth—beautiful and dangerous and not quite human.
"Goodnight," I managed, and fled to my room.
***
