But with him, it does.
Thorne’s hand closes gently but firmly around the back of my neck as we leave the Healer’s Pavilion, his thumb brushing lazily along my hairline like he can’t not touch me.
“Walk with me,” he says.
“Is that a suggestion or a command from the Lord of Fire?” I tease, but my voice comes out softer than I intend.
I’m still a little high from planning out a whole emergency response unit with Evonne.
“A selfish request,” he answers. “We must return to Ashfell.”
I blink. “Now? I thought you still had more to do here. Wards, tunnels, SoulTaker scouting, all that light-hearted fun.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and the air between us tightens.
“I have done what I can for the Vein—for now,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Dagan, Alaric, and Kael have left us all the stronger. My soldiers are in position. The wards hold.”
His hand tightens slightly at my neck, like he’s resisting the urge to drag me closer.
“But I am dangerously low on a different kind of strength.”
My heart stutters.
“What kind?”
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Yours.”
Heat crawls over my skin, delicious and shivery. I squeeze my legs together as desire slams into me.
So needy. Weak with wanting.
“You’re really going to say that to me now? In public?”
“I am not shouting it,” he says mildly. “Though I could. It would be true either way.”
I elbow him lightly in the ribs.
“You don’t play fair, Thorne.”
His answering smile is wicked and entirely unrepentant.
“I’m not playing, Delia.”
“You, sir, are a menace,” I say, and try to lighten the mood.
“You have no idea,” he growls back. “And I don’t dare show you, for we must leave now.”
I open my mouth to ask if we’re taking the coach back, already picturing the long ride across the rust-red plains, when he steps in front of me, blocking my view of the camp.
“No Mustangs this time,” he says.
I frown.
“Then how?—?”
He lifts his other hand, palm up, and a flame sparks to life in the center.
