I almost pulled away.
Almost.
But his hand was in my hair, and his mouth was soft, and the fire outside was still burning, as the fire within me blazed, and I kissed him anyway because I didn't know how to stop wanting him even when I should.
His lips moved against mine slowly, carefully, like he was asking a question he was afraid I'd answer wrong.
Those soft lips said:
Are we going to be okay?
Do you still want me?
Can you love the man who burns families?
His hand slid into my hair, cradling my skull, and the kiss deepened. Heat bloomed in my chest, spread through my veins, and I understood then that I would never becoldagain.
Not as long as he loved me.
And. . .I was also slowly learning in my time with him that fire doesn't just warm.
Fire devours too.
And when he pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine, I knew I was already burning. I'd been burning since the first moment he touched me. The only question was whether I'd survive the blaze—or let it turn me to ash like those people outside.
And then he kissed me again. . .
And I kissed him back because I didn't know what else to do.
Because I loved him.
Because I was his.
Because the alternative was walking away, and he'd made it clear that wasn't an option, and maybe. . .I didn't want it to be anyway.
But my hands still trembled against his chest.
And the taste of ash still lingered in my throat.
And when he pulled back to look at me, I knew he could see what had happened to us in my gaze.
This had caused a break.
A crack between us.
Granted, our bond was not fully broken.
But it was different.
Damaged.
When he reached for my hand, I let him take it.
But I didn't squeeze back.
And I saw the moment he noticed.
He never said yes.
