I covered her hand with mine.
The storm cracked open, rain striking stone in a steady rhythm. I took her hand, and we walked back to our quarters.
The storm growled low against the mountain as I drew her closer. Her breath warmed my collarbone, her hands resting lightly at my waist. The closeness stirred instinct—old, precise, impossible to ignore.
I lowered my head and brushed my cheek along her jaw, slow and deliberate.
She stilled.
“Rygnar?” she whispered. “What was that?”
“A Mesaarkan courtship gesture,” I said.
Her fingers rose to the place I had touched.
“I think…” She swallowed. “I think I liked it.”
Something tightened in my chest, then eased.
“Show me again,” she said softly.
This time, when I traced the same path, she leaned into it. A low sound escaped me—unintended, unrestrained. I held her carefully, letting the moment stretch.
Lina
His warmth wrapped around me, steady and sure. The storm cracked again outside, but it felt distant.
Then he repeated the gesture.
His cheek brushed along my jaw, slow and intentional. The contact was light, but it lingered—heat trailing from the corner of my mouth to the hollow beneath my ear.
I went still, not frightened—just aware.
“Mm, that’s nice,” I whispered.
“It tells others you are mine,” he said quietly.
“I’m yours?”
“Yes. Chosen. Not owned.”
Something inside me softened.
When he drew back, I lifted onto my toes and mirrored the motion—my version, imperfect but intentional.
He went completely still.
“Lina,” he said, voice rougher now. “You don’t know what that means.”
“Then tell me.”
“In my culture… when a mate returns the mark, it signifies acceptance.” His gaze held mine. “And desire.”
“Good, because I want you,” I said.
His arms came around me slowly, as if I were something he refused to mishandle. The storm could have torn the mountain apart, and I wouldn’t have noticed.
I wanted him.
