Choice. That word again. The one he kept offering her like a gift she didn't know how to unwrap.
"You're very strange," she said.
His mouth twitched. "Am I?"
"I mean—" She gestured helplessly. "You're nothing like the stories. Any of the stories. You're supposed to be a monster, and instead you're... you're..."
She couldn't finish. Couldn't find words for what he was, this massive, terrifying, impossibly gentle creature who had appeared in her darkest hour and refused to behave the way he was supposed to.
Ralvar set down the bone he'd been gnawing. Wiped his hands on his thighs. His movements were slow, the same way he'd approached her in the hollow, telegraphing every motion.
"Can I show you something?"
Her heart stuttered. "Show me what?"
He raised one hand and held it in the air between them. Palm up. Open. She could see the calluses there, the old scars, the sheer size of it. Every instinct she'd been taught screamed at her to refuse. Don't trust him. Don't let him closer. Don't forget what he is.
But those instincts had been wrong about everything else. Wrong about her worth, wrong about her size, wrong about what she deserved.
Maybe they were wrong about this, too.
Delia reached out and placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. His hand dwarfed hers completely; her fingers disappeared within his grip like a child's. She should have felt trapped. Should have felt small, swallowed, overpowered.
Instead she felt held.
Ralvar tugged gently. Delia let herself be guided around the remains of the fire until she was beside him instead of across from him. Until she could feel the heat of his body like a furnace at her side. Until his shoulder loomed beside hers and his thigh was a solid wall of muscle at the edge of her vision.
"This," he said quietly, "is what it feels like."
He turned her hand over in his grip. Pressed his thumb firmly into her palm.
And then he didn't do anything else.
He just... held her hand. Let her feel the weight of him, the warmth of him, the impossible gentleness of those warrior's fingers curved around hers.
Delia's breath caught.
"This is the pull?" she whispered.
"This is the choice." He was close now, his voice low and rough. "To touch. To be near. To let instinct guide us toward each other instead of away."
Delia looked up at him and found his amber eyes waiting for her. Patient. Steady. Burning with desire he was holding very carefully in check.
"You're not pushing," she said.
"I won't."
"You could." Her voice came out strange. Breathless. "You could push, and I couldn't stop you, and we both know that."
"Yes." His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm. "That is exactly why I will not."
She didn't understand him. Her whole life had taught her that men took what they wanted, that women were commodities to be weighed and measured, that bodies like hers were worth less and deserved less and should expect nothing.
But Ralvar was still just holding her hand.
"What if—" She stopped. Swallowed. "What if I wanted you to push?"
