And his face was still burning where she'd touched him.
"Come with me." The words were out before he could stop them.
She nodded.
He led her through the shadows, bypassing corridors where servants might see. They emerged in his private chambers, the one place no one entered without invitation. Not his servants. Not his guards. Not anyone, in centuries.
Until her.
The hearth still held embers from this morning. He waved a hand without thinking, and flames leapt up, casting warm orange light across the room. A strange contrast to his nature: this pocket of warmth he'd carved out for himself in a realm of cold. His one indulgence.
She looked around. Taking in the space. Seeing him in the books stacked by the chair, the worn blanket he'd never replaced, the bed that suddenly seemed to dominate the room.
His gloves were still on.
He looked down at his hands. Black leather, butter-soft from years of wear. His constant companions. His barrier against the world.
Against her.
Slowly, he reached for the first glove. His fingers fumbled with the button at his wrist. Ridiculous. He'd done this thousands of times. But his hands wouldn't cooperate, trembling too badly to work the simple fastening.
She crossed the room.
He went still as she stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could see the firelight dancing in her eyes. Close enough that her warmth ghosted across his skin.
Her hands rose to his.
"Let me."
He should say no. Should maintain this last barrier between them.
He turned his wrist toward her instead.
Her fingers worked the button free. Gentle. Unhurried. Like they had all the time in the world. Like undressing the most dangerous creature in the death realms was something she did every day.
She tugged the glove off, finger by finger, and set it aside. Reached for his other hand.
He watched her work the second button. Watched her slide the leather free.
His bare hands hung at his sides.
Brynn looked up at him.
Then she raised her hand. Palm up.
He stared at it. Such a simple gesture. Such an ordinary thing, to offer your hand to someone. People did it every day in the mortal world. Casually. Thoughtlessly. Never understanding what a gift it was.
His hand met hers.
The first thing he noticed was the texture. The calluses on her fingers, rough from years of lockpicks and rope. He'd forgotten that skin had texture, that each person's hands told a story.
The second thing was warmth.
Such an inadequate word. Her hand was alive. Heat radiated fromher palm into his, and his body didn’t know how to process the information. His nerve endings were screaming, overstimulated, trying to interpret the sensation they’d forgotten how to understand.
His fingers trembled. He couldn't stop them.
She stepped closer.
