“The bond,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “Mother Sanque said skin contact strengthens it.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why this feels...”
“I don't know.” He turns on the edge of the bed, and his movement is so sudden that I gasp, my hands suddenly on his chest instead of his back, pressed flat against the muscles over his heart. “I don't know why any of this feels the way it does. I just know I don't want you to stop.”
I should be clinical about this. Professional. A healer tending wounds, nothing more.
But I'm not just a healer right now. I'm a woman standing held by a man who looks at me like I'm the only light in a very dark room. A man whose heart is pounding under my palms, whose hands are gripping the edge of the bed hard enough that the wood creaks.
A man who's been alone for too many years.
I lean forward.
His breath catches.
I press my lips to the scar over his heart.
The sound he makes is not human.
Low, broken, somewhere between a groan and a growl. It rumbles through his chest and into my mouth, vibrating against my lips. His hands come up, and for a moment I think he's going to push me away, but instead they cup my face, tilt my head back, and then his mouth is on mine.
He kisses me like he's drowning. Like I'm the only air he's ever going to get. His hands slide into my hair, down my back, and then he's lifting me again, effortless, pulling me up and onto his lap until I'm straddling his thighs. Sitting in his lap, I'm finally at his eye level. Finally face to face without straining.
“Maren.” He whispers my name against my lips, between kisses. “Maren, Maren, Maren.”
“I'm here.”
“I know.” He pulls back just far enough to look at me, and his eyes are clear amber, no gold at all. “The beast is quiet. Completely quiet. I can't even feel it.”
“Good.”
“It's never been like this.” His thumb traces along my jaw. “Even in the best moments, there's always a whisper. A reminder. Right now there's nothing. Just you.”
Something cracks open in my chest that I couldn't name if I tried.
His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer. I should feel overwhelmed. Swallowed.
I feel safe.
He kisses me again, and this time there's no hesitation, no trembling uncertainty. His hands map my body like he's memorizing the shape of me, learning the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the way I arch into him when he finds a particularly sensitive spot.
“Can I—” His voice is rough, broken. His fingers hover at the hem of my shirt. “I want to feel you.”
“Yes.”
He pulls the fabric over my head in one careful motion, and then his hands are on my bare skin, and I forget how to breathe.
His palms are huge. Rough with calluses and scarred from centuries of violence, but so gentle against me that I want to cry. One hand spans my back, fingers curling over my shoulder. The other cups my ribs.
“So small,” he murmurs. The words vibrate against my throat where his mouth has found the pulse point. “So fragile. I could break you without meaning to.”
“You won't.”
“I know.” He presses a kiss to my collarbone. Another to the hollow of my throat. “Because you'd tell me to stop. And I'd stop. For you, I'd stop.”
His mouth traces lower. I arch into him, fingers gripping his shoulders, and let him explore.
