“Trust me, Fire.” His voice dips low, gravel-edged, almost a growl. “I remember how.”
My core liquefies.
“Then show me,” I murmur. “Tonight. Let’s forget that we’ve ever suffered. Forget that this is probably doomed. I don’t want to think tonight. I just want to feel.”
“Selene…” The way he says my name breaks something open in my chest.
I cradle his face and pull him into a kiss—hungry, yearning, full of everything we cannot say. My fingers fumble at his belt, then at the laces of my dress. For a heartbeat, he only watches me, lips parted, chest rising and falling.
Then he catches my hands gently and presses his forehead to mine.
“Not like this,” he whispers.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Why not?”
“Because you deserve more than this,” he breathes.
I step closer until my chest meets his. He groans softly—a sound that twists through me.
“I want this,” I whisper. “And I know you do too.”
I kiss him again, fiercer this time. His lips yield desperately to my hunger, every kiss feeling like a promise we may never have the chance to keep. My chest aches with more than desire—love and fear and everything tangled between.
But when my fingers reach for his waistband again, he catches my wrists and gently presses them back to my sides.
“Selene, please,” he breathes, his voice pleading now, as though he’s barely holding himself together, barely holding himself back. I know that if I push just a little more, I’ll have him.
“Don’t you want me?” I ask, trembling.
His breath stutters. His jaw tightens, torn between battle and surrender. Then his eyes soften, the fire in them turning tender.
“You know exactly how badly I want you,” he says quietly. He releases my hands, takes a small step back, and draws in a steadying breath.
I bristle, impatience and fear fueling my anger. “We both know the final Trial is dangerous. So let me give you what you need tonight.”
The anguish on his face nearly undoes me. “You want to sleep with me to say goodbye?”
He studies me for a long moment, pain and love warring behind his eyes. Then he moves forward, taking my hands in his.
“Listen to me, love,” he says. “You’re going to live. You’re going to win. Nothing—nothing—is going to stand in your way.”
“And what if I don’t—”
“You will.” His hands cup my cheeks, warm and steady. “I want you for my wife.”
“Wife?” I whisper, the word hollow and sacred all at once.
He presses my hand to his chest. “I want every part of you—not just your body. You already have my heart, Selene. Let that be enough for now. I don’t want one night. I want all your nights. I want you as my wife. My queen. My fire.”
Each word lands like a vow. The world stills around us, the fire crackling softly in the silence that follows.
“Is that a proposal?” I ask, arching a brow. “I thought you couldn’t officially propose until someone survives the final Trial.”
He smiles. And then he kneels.
“Selene Anne Fairchild,” he says, steady and sure, “will you marry me tomorrow, after you win the Trial and earn the right to be my wife—and queen of Abrellia?”
IfI win,ifI break the curse, he will be mine—and I, his.
