“You sound proud.”
“I am proud.” I follow Aisling blocking one of Selene’s fire bolts, redirecting it into a dissipation spiral. Perfect execution. “She’s earned it.”
Drayke is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his tone drops. “You haven’t claimed her yet.”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Why?”
The question shouldn’t sting, but it does. Because the answer is complicated, and I don’t do complicated. I do loud and brash and immediate. I do action, not waiting.
But for her, I’m learning patience.
“She’s not ready.” The words scrape past my throat. “She was tortured, Drayke. Used. Weeks of having every decision strippedaway. I won’t take another one from her, even if it’s what we both crave.”
“That’s surprisingly mature of you.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked. Just... impressed.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve changed. Since she arrived.”
I could argue. Could deflect with a joke, dodge the sincerity in his tone. But he’s right, and we both know it.
“She’s worth changing for.”
The kissin the corridor happens without planning.
I’m rounding the corner from the armory when I nearly collide with her—she’s coming from the opposite direction, arms full of journals she’s borrowed from Auren’s library. Our bodies are inches apart before either of us can stop.
“Aisling.”
“Rurik.”
Her pupils dilate. I catch the flutter of pulse in the hollow of her throat. She’s been doing this every time we’re close—that involuntary physical response that tells me everything her guarded words don’t.
“You’re in my way.” But she doesn’t move.
“You’re in mine.” Neither do I.
The journals form a barrier between us. Her arms press them against her body, pages crinkling. I should step back. Let her pass. Maintain the distance we’ve been navigating since the ramparts.
Instead, I reach out and tuck a strand of red hair behind her ear.
She exhales sharply. Her flame flickers at her fingertips—I can see it dancing beneath her skin, reacting to whatever’s building inside her.
“We shouldn’t.” Barely above a whisper.
“No.”
“Anyone could see.”
“Yes.”
“It’s impractical.”
“Extremely.”
Her mouth smiles despite herself. That dry humor I’ve come to love, cutting through the tension.
