Lonari’s jaw clenches. “I told you.”
“I know,” I whisper, and the words taste like defeat. “And I hate that you were right.”
Silence settles between us, thick and charged. The suite feels too quiet for the adrenaline still buzzing in my bloodstream.Somewhere far below, the casino music resumes, muffled through layers of wall and wealth.
Lonari steps closer again, and this time his hand actually touches me—just the back of his knuckles brushing my cheek, gentle and careful in a way that feels almost indecent from someone who can break necks like twigs.
I flinch slightly, not from him, but from the unfamiliar tenderness.
He pauses immediately. “Too much?”
I swallow hard. “No. Just… unexpected.”
His thumb drifts along my cheekbone, slow enough that my skin has time to register every detail: the warmth, the faint texture of scale transitioning to softer skin at the edge of his hand, the way his touch asks instead of takes.
My breath comes out shaky.
I hate that my body wants him when my brain is still screaming about danger. I hate that the want feels like relief, like a place to put all this frantic energy that isn’t just fear anymore—it’s grief and rage and adrenaline and loneliness all tangled together.
I step back half a pace anyway, forcing myself to be deliberate, because impulsive is how you end up regretting things you can’t undo.
Lonari watches me closely.
“I need to know,” I say, voice steadier now. “If we do… anything… it’s not because I’m scared and you’re convenient.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m convenient?”
I glare. “Don’t get cocky.”
He raises one hand slightly, like surrender. “Alright.”
I inhale, tasting that faint herbal scent in the room, feeling the softness of the carpet under my bare toes because I kicked my boots off without remembering when.
“I want choice,” I say quietly. “I want to choose you, if I choose you. Not because the world is burning and you’re the only wall I can lean on.”
Lonari’s eyes hold mine, and his voice comes out low, almost reverent in its honesty.
“Then choose,” he says. “Or don’t. I’m not taking what you don’t give.”
The words hit something in me—something tender and furious.
Because in the systems I grew up in, nothing was ever asked. It was assigned. Approved. Denied. Scheduled.
This—this asking—feels like freedom in a language I’m not fluent in.
I step forward.
Not rushing. Not falling.
Choosing.
I lift my hands and place them on his chest, feeling the solid heat of him through the suit fabric, the steady strength under my palms. The contact sends a shiver up my arms and settles in my belly like a slow flame.
Lonari doesn’t move. He waits.
“Okay,” I whisper, and my voice shakes, but my hands don’t. “Okay. I choose.”
His breath leaves him in a low exhale, like he’s been holding it.
