“You’re doing it again,” she murmured.
“Doing what?”
“Being sweet when I’m trying to be annoyed with you.”
His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. “It’s a terrible habit.”
“The worst.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek with devastating gentleness, and her breath caught. His touch was always like this—careful, controlled, as if she were made of something that might shatter.
“I should go,” he said quietly. “It’s getting late.”
No.The word lodged in her throat, but she swallowed it down. Pushing wouldn’t help. She’d learned that much over the past three weeks. He needed to come to her on his own terms, in his own time. All she could do was be patient and present and trust that eventually, he’d stop running.
“Okay,” she said instead. “Early morning tomorrow anyway.”
He nodded, but he didn’t move. His hand was still on her cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against her jaw. His ears were angled forward, alert, tracking something in her expression.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I’m going to need more tea after you leave.”
“Liar.”
She couldn’t help her smile. “You caught me.”
“Sara.” His voice roughened on her name. “Tell me.”
I’m thinking about how your hands would feel on more than my face. I’m thinking about the sounds you’d make if I got your shirt off. I’m thinking about whether rabbit Others are as impressive as the rumors suggest, and whether I’ll ever actually get to find out.
“I’m thinking,” she said carefully, “that you should stop worrying so much.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not?—”
“You are.” She turned her face into his palm, pressing a kiss to the center. His breath stuttered. “But that’s okay. I knew what I was signing up for.”
“Did you?”
“Male with baggage? Complicated feelings about intimacy? A desperate need to be absolutely certain before making any kind of commitment?” She shrugged. “I’ve dated, Ben. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Something flickered in his eyes—something dark and possessive that made her stomach clench. “I don’t want to hear about your previous rodeos.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to reference them.”
He made a sound low in his throat, half-growl, half-laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘delightfully challenging.’”
His hand slid from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, his claws prickling lightly against her skin. Not a threat—a promise. A reminder of what lay beneath his careful control.
“Delightfully dangerous,” he corrected. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“So show me.”
The words hung between them like a gauntlet thrown. She watched the war play out across his features—want versus caution, instinct versus discipline. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he might finally give in.
Then he exhaled slowly and drew back.
