Kieran’s eyes went to my mouth.
His hand rose, then stopped before touching my face.
“Still allowed?” he asked.
The question landed low in me.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He kissed me carefully.
For about one second.
Then I caught the front of his coat and pulled him closer.
Careful shattered.
Kieran made a sound against my mouth, low and surprised, and his left hand came to my waist like he had been told he could have this one thing this one time and meant to take it while hestill could. His fingers gripped me heard through the wool of my coat.
His right hand stayed close to his side.
Held back by pain or discipline or both.
That restraint did something worse to me than being touched would have.
I opened my mouth under his.
The Pull flared green and bright at the back of my throat, apple-sharp, wind-cold, threaded with the heat of his mouth. The brooch pressed between us. My mother’s wren. Quill’s trap. Mine now, hard against my chest while Kieran kissed me like he was trying not to ask for more and failing.
The roof stayed under my feet.
Barely.
When he drew back, he did it slowly, his forehead almost touching mine.
I let him.
Reluctantly.
“I hate that they used it that way.”
“So do I.”
“I’m glad you brought it here.”
“Don’t make me regret that.”
“I won’t.”
He said it too quickly. Too seriously.
For a second, I felt the shape of something behind the answer.
A locked door with his back against it.
Then the clock above us struck.
The sound moved through the roof, through the stone, through the brooch at my chest.
