The way she'd fisted her hand in his tunic and pulled him back for more.
He'd done the right thing. He knew that. She was injured, exhausted, traumatized. Taking her to his bed now would have been—
Not force. She would have come willingly. He'd seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice, smelled it in the heat rising from her skin.
But it would have beenwrong. Taking advantage of her vulnerability. Claiming her before she fully understood what she was choosing. Before she understoodhim.
He wanted morethan a night.
The thought was dangerous. More dangerous than raider parties or border skirmishes or all the threats he'd faced in his years of service. He'd never wantedmorebefore. Had never let himself imagine a future beyond the next patrol, the next battle, the next lonely night in a watchtower with nothing but duty for company.
Now he imagined too much.
He imagined her in his quarters at the outpost. Imagined teaching her the orcish tongue, showing her the high passes, watching her learn that the world was bigger than the cruelty she'd known. He imagined years stretching out ahead of them. Quiet years, full years, years with her voice and her scent and her stubborn courage filling all the empty spaces he'd learned to ignore.
He imagined, and the imagining was worse than the wanting.
Because the wanting was simple. Primal. A fire that burned and demanded and could be controlled through will alone.
But the imagining was something else entirely.
It was hope.
And hope, Ralvar had learned long ago, was the most dangerous thing of all.
She was restless.
He noticed an hour before midnight—the small sounds of movement, the rustle of furs, the pattern of her breathing shifting from shallow sleep to wakefulness and back again. She was fighting something in her dreams, and he watched helplessly from across the room, unable to go to her without being asked.
The restraint was its own particular torture.
He wanted to gather her up. Hold her close. Growl at the darkness until it understood that it could not have her.
But she hadn't asked.
So he sat and watched.
And then, just past midnight, she woke.
He heard the sharp intake of breath. The sudden stillness as consciousness flooded back. The rustle of furs as she pushed herself upright, one hand going to her chest like she was checking her own heartbeat.
"Ralvar?"
Her voice was thin. Small. Nothing like the woman who'd pulled him down for a second kiss.
"I'm here."
She turned toward him in the darkness. The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was full of shadows, but his eyes had no trouble finding the pale shape of her face.
She shifted toward him, dragging her furs with her, and pressed herself against his side.
The contact jolted through him like lightning. He felt the soft warmth of her body, the weight of her head as it came torest against his chest. His arm came up around her automatically and drew her closer.
"Is this okay?" she whispered.
The question almost made him laugh. She was askinghimif this was okay. As if he weren't fighting the urge to wrap himself around her completely, to shield her from every shadow and threat and memory that haunted her sleep.
"Yes."
