I take a seat on the wooden stool in my proffered cabin, a mug of warm cider in hand. Thanks to Nephele and Zahira’s efforts in the galley, a mishmash of a breakfast awaits.
With a glance, I raise a bold flame in the unlit lantern hanging near the door to illuminate the lightless cabin. The fire crackles and spits, and Raina peers at me from beneath a mess of dark hair tumbled over her head.
She scrubs the hair back from her dark blue eyes and tosses the blanket aside. Sitting up with a jerk, she wears a grumpy face that I can’t help but grin at. If nothing had changed between us, I’d crawl over her, lay her down, and kiss her until she smiled against my mouth.
“Such a joy you are first thing in the morning,” I say with a roguish grin. “Such a beautiful, happy light.” As the ship tips over a wave, she grips the edge of the bed and glares at me with sleepy—annoyed—eyes. Once the ship corrects, I offer her the mug of cider. “Apple and cinnamon. It’s quite good. Made by your sister.”
Raina shakes her head in answer and threads her fingers through her tangled hair over and over to tame it.
My gaze drifts down the lovely column of her throat, and… That’s when I notice it. The neck of her rather large tunic is untied, her beautifully marked chest on display.
I cock my head, lift a finger, and very matter-of-factly say, “You’re wearing my shirt.”
Her face. If I could capture this moment in etched glass, I would.
Stiffly, she lifts her chin and signs, ‘“I was cold.”
I nod, slowly. “Of course. Cold. It had nothing to do with the fact that you wanted me last night.”
She doesn’t bother to hide her disgust. “You think far too highly of yourself.”
For a second, I consider playing nice. She’s tired, and we have quite the night ahead. But I cannot let the moment pass.
I glance around the room, my gaze landing on my open pack before it slides to her crumpled shirt and a pretty white undergarment she must’ve bought while shopping with Yaz.
“Exactly what did you do in here last night?” I ask and take a sip of her cider.
She reaches for her shirt and underthings, snatching them from the desk, then shrugs and makes a face I know well. What do you mean? that face says as she signs, “I slept.”
“Mmm. I just wondered because I felt something through the bond.”
Again. Her face. All that sheer mortification hidden beneath a poorly constructed mask of indifference. The pretty apples of her cheeks turn rosy, and a flush races up her neck. How I want to taste the heat of her skin.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and glance at the loosened laces of her leathers. They lie on her thighs beneath the tunic’s hem which is rumpled around her waist.
“I know what you did last night.” It was a thin stream of connection across the singed tatters of our bond, but there’s no mistaking that feeling. “Did it feel good?” I ask before taking another sip. “Thinking of me while you fucked yourself? Did you think about sucking my cock? Or when I came in your hand? Or when you came on my fa—”
She jolts up from the bed, tossing her clothes aside. “Stop,” she signs, standing over me. “Last night was not about you, and I do not need you to tell me what happened between us. It changes nothing about what I feel for you.”
Leaning back in my chair, I raise my brow. “Which is?”
“Loathing,” she signs.
I give her a challenging stare. “And lust.”
“Repulsion.”
“Attraction.”
“Disgust.”
“Desire.” I wink. “Shall we do this all morning? Or should we fuck and get that part out of the way?”
The moment I present the question, I see it take up space in her mind—a proposal with possibility. But it’s a half-lived notion because she squelches it seconds later.
“Tell me what you want,” she demands, her hands moving in that sharp, fast way that means she’s close to boiling. “Why are you here?”
I stand and set her mug on the desk, every inch of my body aware of her nearness.
