“Take this ridiculous frilly dress off,” he commanded softly.
The air felt stolen from the room. My breath went shallow, my mouth watered, and my skin prickled like it recognized him before my mind could.
I did as he asked, loosening the corset. The heavy fabric slid to the ground, leaving me in the baby-blue silk shift Antonias’s staff had provided.
Titus’s gaze dropped to my mate mark. He moved one thin strap aside carefully, and his expression darkened.
“It’s still not healing?” he asked.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Does it hurt?” His voice went low, controlled.
“The acolytes used those brushes—” I began, but he lifted a finger to my lips, stopping me.
“Shh,” he said, and there was something raw in his eyes that made my heart sink. “Please. I can’t hear what they did to you—not right now.” He swallowed and forced himself steady. “I’ll have Sanaris look at it before we depart.”
I nodded. Then, because the ache in my chest needed somewhere to go, and I like to hide pain with humor. I tried for a weak smirk. “Great. He’ll want to put a fish on it.”
Titus barked a short laugh, the sound cracked but real. He slid into thin cotton pants laid beside the bed, then turned to me and lowered himself, placing his hands on the backs of my thighs.
In one smooth motion he lifted me.
My legs wrapped around his waist, my arms around his neck, and our mouths collided in a heated kiss. He fisted a handful of my hair and pulled me impossibly closer, like he couldn’t stand the distance between our bodies even for a second. His tongue lapped at mine, and I scraped my teeth against his lip in a soft bite.
He groaned.
He carried me into the attached washroom and set me on the sink, then kissed me deeper, harder, like he was trying to press himself into my bones.
“I never thought I’d be able to kiss you again, Pickles,” he breathed against my mouth.
“We got another chance…again,” I whispered, and the words shook.
“Thank all the fucking gods and Guardians,” he groaned, and he attacked my mouth with his kiss.
I gasped as he moved to my neck, sucking and nibbling until my legs tightened around him. His hands slid up to my breasts through the thin shift, kneading and pinching my nipples in that maddening, aggravating way that made my hips rock on instinct.
“I don’t want to live another day not being your mate, officially,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at me.
“The blood binding ceremony?” I asked, breathless.
“I almost died, Delilah,” he said, voice thick, and the humor drained from him like a tide pulling away. “I don’t want to waste another day with you not completely mine. I want the bond it will give us.”
My throat closed. “You mean we finally get to have our wedding?”
His eyes shifted between mine like he was sorting through lifetimes of memories at a rapid pace.
“A wedding…” he echoed softly. He looked lost for a heartbeat— not weak, just haunted—and the words came out with a strange ache. “We were supposed to be married, weren’t we?”
“We were,” I admitted, and saying it aloud made it real in a way my heart wasn’t ready for.
He stared at me for a long moment, something decisive settling into him, and then the High Lord sank to one knee—slowly, deliberately—and took my hand with both of his, like he was afraid he’d hold me wrong and break me.
His fingers trembled. Amber light flared soft in his eyes. “Delilah Raye,” he asked, voice raw and sure at the same
time, “I know I’ve asked you this once before but, will you marry me tomorrow? I promise to buy you the largest ring of your choosing.”
My chest went tight, and my eyes burned.
