“I know. I know we shouldn’t…”
“Complicated,” she finished, another step. The air between them felt electric.
They stoodthree feet apart in a clearing that still smelled faintly of sulfur and singed tennis balls. The afternoon light caught in Marcus’s dark eyes, turning them to burnished copper.
“I can’t believe that worked.” The words came out breathless, carried on a laugh that was part adrenaline, part pure delight. “Did you see their faces when the ball bounced? Like they’d never considered the possibility of toys.”
“You threw a tennis ball at hellhounds.” His voice held wonder. “Most people run. You decided to play fetch.”
“Well, running seemed rude. They came all this way.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and noticed his eyes tracking the movement. “Besides, Azrael was right. They’re still dogs under all that hellfire and brimstone.”
“You could have been killed.”
“But I wasn’t.” She met his gaze steadily. “You wouldn’t have let that happen.”
“No.” The word came out fierce. “I wouldn’t.”
His hair fell across his forehead, slightly mussed from their adventure. She’d never noticed his laugh lines before today.
“Repeat it,” she whispered.
His brow furrowed slightly. “What?”
“Beautiful.” The word felt like a spell on her tongue. “You called me beautiful.”
He took a half-step closer.
“You’re beautiful, Hazel.”
The simple words landed somewhere under her sternum. She took another step closer, close enough to notice the slight roughness of stubble along his jaw, the way his gaze dropped to her mouth.
“You’ve ruined everything, you know.” He stepped closer.
“Good.” The word came out breathless.
His hand rose to her cheek, fingers brushing her skin.
“Improved it immeasurably?” But the joke came out shaky, her whole body leaning into his touch.
“Destroyed it completely.” His fingers traced her cheekbone. “Seven days, and I’m making toast and playing fetch with hellhounds and thinking about…” He stopped himself.
“Thinking about what?”
“Things I shouldn’t.” His hand dropped, but he didn’t step back. “We said we’d keep it professional.”
She laughed. “Professional? We just played fetch with hellhounds.”
“Hazel…”
“To hell with professional.”
She closed the distance between them, rising on her toes as her hands found his shoulders. For one suspended moment, they hovered on the precipice, his eyes searching hers.
Then his control shattered.
His arms came around her waist, pulling her against him as his mouth found hers. The kiss was desperate. He kissed like he did everything else: with focused intensity that made her forget her own name.
But there was softness, too, a reverence in the way he held her. His hands splayed across her back, anchoring her to him while everything else fell away.
