Could he be immune? Rachel wouldn’t answer my question when I asked if he could tolerate poisons.
Hope stirs as I stare at him.
His chest rises and falls with steady breaths. His pupils are normal. His skin hasn’t changed color. He’s not clutching his throat or staggering or showing any of the signs that’ve been burned into my brain time and time again.
He’s fine.
He’s fuckingfine.
“Mia?” His voice is gentle, concerned. “Talk to me, please. What’s going on?”
I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t do anything except stand here with my heart slamming against my ribs and my mind racing through a lifetime of terror and certainty that just shattered like glass.
He didn’t die.
I kissed him, and he didn’t die.
The realization punches me, knocking the air from my lungs. I’ve spent half my life believing I was a monster. A weapon. Something broken and dangerous that could never be touched, never behad. I’ve watched my poison take lives, used it to my advantage for the British government, and I’ve accepted that intimacy would always end in death.
But not with him.
Not withhim.
Holy Jesus fuck.
“Darlin’, you’re scaring me.” He takes a step closer, reaching out. “Whatever I did wrong?—”
I close the distance between us in two strides, grab fistfuls of his shirt, pull him down to my level, and crush my mouth against his.
He makes a sound of surprise—a grunt that vibrates against my lips—and for a second, he’s frozen, probably trying to figure out if I’ve lost my goddamn mind. Which I have. I definitely have. But I don’t care, because I’mkissingsomeone, and they’re not dying, and it feels like every locked door in my body has just been blown off its hinges.
Then, his hands find my waist, and he’s kissing me back, andoh God.
I am done for.
This is nothing like before. Before was desperate and hungry and tinged with the terror of impending death. This is something else entirely. This is me choosing him, claiming him, taking what I’ve been denied. My fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer,and I pour every ounce of pent-up frustration and longing and need into the kiss.
He tastes like whiskey and want. His stubble scrapes my chin. His tongue slides against mine, and I actually moan into his mouth—a sound I’ve never made before, not like this, not with someone else’s lips on mine.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth. “Mia?—”
I don’t let him finish. I kiss him again, harder, my hands releasing his shirt to rake up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. I want to touch everything. I want to feel everything. I’ve spent so long keeping my hands to myself, maintaining careful distance, and now, it’s like a dam has broken, and I can’t stop the flood.
His hands aren’t idle either. They slide up my bare back, fingers splaying across skin that’s never been touched like this, with so much need and possession, and I shiver so hard, my teeth nearly chatter. Every nerve ending is lit up, screaming with sensation. It’s too much and not enough, all at once.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You’re shaking.”
“Don’t stop,” I manage. “Please, don’t stop.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his pupils so large, his eyes are almost black. “I thought you didn’t want this.”
“I was wrong.”
“You pushed me away?—“
“I was scared.” The truth spills out before I can stop it. “I was scared I was going to hurt you. And now, I—” My voice cracks. “I need you to touch me. Please.”
Something changes in his expression. The confusion melts away, replaced by understanding and then something darker. Hungrier. That dangerous edge I glimpsed earlier is back, sharper now, no longer leashed.
