She didn't die.
His hand curved around the side of her face, fingers sliding into her hair. Silk and softness, and his hand was shaking so badly he was probably pulling it, but she didn't complain. Just watched him with those steady eyes while he fell apart.
"You're shaking," she whispered.
He tried to laugh. It came out broken. "I can't stop."
"Does it hurt?"
"No."Yes."It's just…a lot."
That was the understatement of the century. His entire body felt like an exposed nerve. Every point of contact was a universe of sensation. Her hand in his, her cheek against his palm, her fingers still resting on his jaw. Too much and not enough, and he didn't know how to hold it all.
She stepped closer.
Her body pressed against his.
A low growl rumbled through his chest.
His arms wrapped around her. Instinct, not thought. Her head tucked under his chin. Her arms circled his waist. Her warmth bled into him.
His face buried in her hair. Smoke from the attack. Warm citrus underneath that was just her, and he was breathing it in with desperate gasps because he didn't know how long this would last, didn't know when she'd realize what a terrible idea this was?—
She held him tighter.
Her fingers dug into his spine, holding tight, like she was afraid he'd disappear. Like she was claiming him just as much as he was claiming her.
His shoulders were shaking. His breath came ragged and uneven. He was coming apart in her arms and couldn't stop it.
He should pull back. Compose himself. Pretend he hadn't just buried his face in a mortal woman's hair like she was the only thing holding him together.
He buried his face deeper instead.
Her hand came up to cradle the back of his skull. The gesture undid him all over again.
His arms tightened around her. Probably too tight. He couldn't gauge pressure anymore, couldn't remember how hard it was when you weren't trying to kill someone. But she didn't complain. Just held on while he learned how to let himself be held.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. His body slowly stopped trembling, the overwhelming flood of sensation settling into something he could almost bear.
She didn't let go.
Eventually, she pulled back. Just far enough to look at him.
He braced for it. The pity. The discomfort. The realization that she'd just witnessed the Lord of the Forsaken break and needed to extract herself politely.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hi."
"Was that okay?" she asked.
The question almost broke him again.Was that okay?As if she'd done something wrong. As if giving him the first genuine touch he'd experienced in longer than he could remember could ever be anything less than?—
"Okay," he repeated. The word came out hoarse. "You're asking if that was okay."
Uncertainty flickered across her face.
He caught her hand. Pressed her palm to his cheek. Held it there while he looked at her with everything he'd spent so long learning to hide.
