Her breath catches. "You mean it?"
Do I?
The curse is still burning under my skin. The runes are still glowing faint red. Everything rational in me says this is suicide—political, social, probably literal.
But she's right.
Yesterday, when she touched me, somethinghappened.
Something that felt like finding a piece of myself I didn't know was missing.
"Say yes," I murmur.
She blinks. "What?"
"If I claim you—really claim you, not this leased pretense—it has to be your choice." I turn my hands over so I'm gripping hers now. "So I'm asking. Will you let me?"
Understanding blooms across her face.
"Yes," she whispers.
The word hits me like lightning.
I stand, still holding her hands, and draw her up with me. She's so much smaller than me—has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes—but she doesn't look afraid.
She lookscertain.
I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "Once I do this, there's no going back. For either of us."
"I don't want to go back."
"Annora—"
"Kiss me."
It's not a request.
I kiss her.
It's not gentle. Can't be, not with the curse still burning, not with the decision I just made settling like an oath in my bones. But it's not violent either. It'sclaiming—deep and possessive and asking a question with every movement:Is this what you want? Is this enough? Is this too much?
She answers by fisting her hands in my shirt and pulling me closer.
We break apart breathing hard.
"Inside," I rasp. "Not here."
She nods, and I lead her out of the infirmary, through corridors that echo with our footsteps, to my chambers.
The door closes behind us with a softclick.
I've had lovers before.
Not many—the curse makes intimacy... complicated—but enough to know what I'm doing. Enough to recognize that this is different.
This isn't just need. Isn't just attraction.
This is a claiming. A binding.
