Close enough to touch.
Close enough to see every flaw.
Close enough that I could break him, too.
My breath stutters. I attempt to hide it, but the faint narrowing of his eyes tells me he caught it anyway.
The rain outside deepens, drumming harder against the glass. A flicker of worry, no, anticipation, crosses his features before he reins it back in, placing the unreadable mask over it once more.
I shift my weight slightly, testing the air, the distance, the sound of both of our breathing. My wand is still warm in my palm, as though aware of what it might mean if I step forward into that space.
Intohisspace.
“Harper,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, just enough to anchor me in place, to remind me of the tension hanging like a thread ready to snap.
And still, he waits.
Caution steadies my movements. Every instinct I have screams to turn away, to create distance, to preserve whatever thin boundary still exists between us. Yet something deeper, pushes me forward instead. My palms hover uncertainly over the edge of the alcove as I shift my weight, angling myself toward the narrow space he indicated.
The ledge is cold beneath my knee as I ease closer, the scent of rain and parchment filling the quiet. His legs bracket the space with unspoken expectation, and though he hasn’t touched me again, the memory of his hand on my shirt lingers like pressure against my skin. My breath hitches as I finally settle into the narrow gap between his knees,careful, hesitant, ready to pull back if he so much as twitches wrong.
But Sebastian Harwood does not wait for careful.
In one fluid motion, he reaches for me again, not rough, not careless, but with a certainty that steals the ground out from under me. His hands find my waist with deliberate precision, fingers curling just enough to claim the moment without bruising it. Before I can brace myself, he draws me forward and upward in a single decisive pull.
A startled gasp escapes me as my body meets his.
Warmth floods the space between us. My knees slide to either side of his hips, the fabric of my robe brushing the dark fabric of his trousers. His chest rises beneath me, steady but tense, and the library’s dim light settles over us like a held breath.
Then he lifts my chin.
No force, just the gentle press of his fingers guiding my gaze until it meets his. Rain light glints across his eyes, brightening the green and deepening the darker ring around them, and for a moment the entire room empties of sound.
“Now,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, “tell me to stop.”
Not a command.
A challenge.
A plea wrapped in iron.
His grip doesn’t tighten, doesn’t trap me; if anything, it loosens slightly, giving me the space to pull away. The gesture is more intimate than any restraint could be. My breath trembles as I realize he’s handing the choice to me, expecting me to take it.
But there’s something else beneath the words, hidden under the smooth control of his tone. A flicker of uncertainty. A hesitation. A fear of hearing the wrong answer.
Magic hums faintly through my veins, responding to theheat of his hands, to the tension coiling through his body, to the proximity neither of us should want yet both of us undeniably sought. My fingers, which had automatically gripped his shoulders to steady myself, curl deeper into the fabric of his shirt, grounding me and betraying me in the same breath.
For a heartbeat, I can’t speak.
For a heartbeat, neither can he.
Rain drums softly on the glass, the only witness to the fragile, dangerous line we are toeing.
He looks at me like the truth might ruin him.
Silence settles over us in a way that feels almost physical. It wraps itself around my ribs, presses warm and heavy beneath my skin, tightening with every second I refuse to speak. I should tell him to stop. I should push off his chest, climb off his lap, reclaim whatever crumbling sense of control I had left. But the words stay locked behind my teeth, unmoving, and the stillness I offer instead becomes its own answer.
His gaze drops to my mouth before rising slowly, painfully slowly, back to my eyes, and that small movement alone sends a ribbon of heat spiraling beneath my skin. One of his hands steadies at my waist, fingers molding to the curve of it with a gentleness that makes my breath hitch. The other slides along my hip, his thumb tracing a line that isn’t meant to be seductive but becomes so anyway, simply because of how close we already are. The warmth of him seeps through the layers of fabric between us, blurring boundaries I’ve spent my life enforcing.
