Her light is on.
She’s standing near the window, barefoot, hair loose down her shoulders in wild copper waves, the city bleeding gold and gray behind her. She’s changed—out of the jacket, into something soft and thin that clings to her like it knows it’s allowed. Her arms are crossed, shoulders tense, as if she can still feel the night clinging to her skin.
She turns when the door clicks shut. Her eyes widen just a fraction. Not fear. Not surprise.
Recognition.
“Saint,” she says. My name in her mouth is a question and an invitation all at once. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
I lean back against the door, crossing my arms. “You sound disappointed.”
Her lips part, then close. “I sound observant.”
“Liar.” I let my gaze drag over her, slow and unapologetic. “You sound like you were hoping.”
Color blooms high on her cheeks. Beautiful. Infuriating.
“You should go,” she says, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t tell me to get out.
I push off the door and walk toward her, unhurried, letting the space between us shrink inch by inch. “Wraith told me to stay away from you.”
Her breath catches. “And you came anyway.”
“Of course I did.”
I stop just in front of her. Close enough that I can feel the heat from her skin, smell the faint trace of paint and rain and something purely her. She tilts her chin up, defiant even now, even here.
“Why?” she asks.
I lift a hand, slow, giving her every chance to stop me. She doesn’t. My fingers brush her wrist first—just skin, just warmth—before sliding up to her forearm. Goosebumps rise instantly.
“Because you’re not a temptation,” I murmur. “You’re a provocation.”
Her breath shudders.
“Because you look at us like you’re trying to decide whether to run or rule,” I continue, stepping closer, until the front of her body brushes mine. “And because you make men who haven’t knelt in yearswantto.”
Her eyes darken. “You talk like you think I’m dangerous.”
I smile. “Divine, actually.”
The word lands heavy between us.
I lift my hand to her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her lip. She inhales sharply, her pulse jumping under my touch. I don’t claim her. I don’t take. I hover. “You feel it too,” I say quietly. “Don’t you?”
She swallows. “I feel…something.”
“Say it.”
Her voice drops. “I feel like I’m standing too close to a fire.”
My thumb traces the corner of her mouth. “Good. Fire is honest.”
Her lashes flutter. I can see the fight in her—every instinct screaming caution, every nerve screaming yes. She doesn’t step back. Neither do I. When I kiss her, it’s slow. A sin dressed as patience.
No rush. No hunger. Just pressure and warmth and the quiet, devastating intimacy of choice.
Her breath stutters into mine. Her hands lift, hesitating for a heartbeat before fisting into my shirt. Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away—holding steady.
