Not just warm—but magnetic. Alive.
I swear I can feel the mating bond humming again—shimmering just beneath the surface of our skin, curling between us like a spark waiting for oxygen.
It’s there in the pulse of the Vein below, in the tension in his jaw, in the way his gaze dips—not to my eyes, but to my mouth.
Just one breath.
One invitation.
That’s all it would take.
He could kiss me.
I could let him.
Hell, I want him to.
But he only closes his eyes for a moment. Inhales like it costs him something.
Then he exhales, slow and ragged.
And just like that, he leans back—pulling away with the kind of care that burns more than any rush of passion ever could.
His face is unreadable again. Masked.
Like the moment never happened.
Like he didn’t just almost set the world on fire with a look.
“We have some time left on our journey, Shula,” he says quietly. “Get some rest.”
He presses me gently back into my seat, his touch feather-light, respectful.
And I sit there, heart still hammering, trying to remember how to breathe.
The coach moves steadily onward, pulled by beasts of living flame.
A war-wagon headed for the belly of a dying world.
Time to see the best and worst of Nightfall.
And all I can think about is what happens after.
After the battles. After the saving. After the pretending.
Because somewhere in the space between his arms and that near-kiss—I already made a choice I can’t take back.
I’m not going back to my old life.
Not now.
Not ever.
I’m staying here—with him.
And I’m not sure if that means I’ve found my future.
Or if I just signed my own death sentence.
