“Fiona,” he breathed.
And now it was not warning.
It was surrender—beginning.
“I have been told,” he said quietly, “that I am not meant to inspire desire.”
Her fingers tightened slightly against his throat.
“And yet you do.”
The words seemed to undo him.
His hands tightened at her waist, and the space between them vanished. She felt the strength of him, the restraint barely holding.
“I have spent my life denying myself even the thought of wanting,” he said, voice roughening. “And now—”
His breath faltered.
“Now I find I want more than I ought.”
She did not answer.
She rose onto her toes instead.
And then he kissed her.
His mouth slanted over hers, hot and demanding, and Fiona responded with equal fervour. Her hands slid up his chest—over the birthmark, over the hard planes of muscle, into the wild tangle of his hair. She fisted the dark strands and pulled him closer, deeper, swallowing his groan against her tongue.
His hands slid to her waist, then lower, spanning her hips, tracing the curve of her spine as though committing her to memory. He lifted her effortlessly—she remembered that strength, the way he carried her as though she were weightless—and her breath caught as her back met the cool stone wall of the training hall.
“We should stop.” The words were ragged against her throat, his mouth hot against her skin even as he spoke them. “This is madness. You are a guest. You are injured. You are—”
“I am exactly where I wish to be.” She caught his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Are you?”
His chest rose and fell hard. His hair had come entirely loose now, falling wild about his face. He looked undone. Desperate. Like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to step back or fall.
He chose to fall.
His mouth returned to hers—slower this time, but no less consuming. His hands moved upward, cradling her face as though she were something fragile and priceless, his thumbs brushing the line of her cheekbones while he kissed her with thorough, deliberate hunger. She arched into him, feeling the hard length of him pressed against her, the unmistakable evidence of his desire, and heat pooled low in her belly in answer.
He groaned softly when she shifted against him, the sound vibrating through her.
His grip tightened.
For a suspended moment, there was nothing but heat and breath and the slow unravelling of restraint.
Then—
A sharp clang echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the hall. A door slamming. Distant voices carried along the corridor.
Reality intruded.
Christian stilled first.
The change was subtle, but she felt it—the return of control, hard-won and deliberate. He drew back only enough to lift his head, breath still uneven, eyes dark and unguarded.
They remained pressed together, neither willing to step away.
