Lord Thorne’s Pavilion, The Ember Vein Mining Camp
I love him.
I do.
I told him.
Which is terrifying.
And reckless.
And so unlike me, it makes my head spin.
But he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t laugh or look shocked or step back like so many before him.
I think—I think—he said it back.
But I can’t be sure.
Because right now?
Thorne is kissing me.
And God, no one has ever kissed me like this.
There’s no hesitation. No caution. No playacting.
It’s raw.
It’s claiming.
It’s sexy as hell.
The heat pouring off his skin is molten.
I feel it in every corner of my body, awakening nerves I didn’t even know I had.
It doesn’t scorch—it ignites.
And instead of shrinking from it, I crave more. I want to burn in him. With him.
The strange markings on his body—those molten, swirling patterns I thought were tattoos—shift under my gaze like living things.
Liquid ink edged in fire.
They dance beneath his skin, glowing with every heartbeat, reacting to every breath I take.
To me.
They’re reacting to me.
“Thorne,” I breathe, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
He groans in answer, low and deep and dark, before his strong arms wrap around me, rolling me gently onto my belly.
A whimper escapes me—more anticipation than protest—as he straddles my thighs, his weight pressing me into the plush mattress.
