"And if I fail? If I say the wrong thing, show weakness, make a mistake?"
"You won't."
"But if I do. It damages you. Maybe permanently."
"I know."
She studies me, searching for something in my expression. I don't know if she finds it.
"Why?" she asks. "Why trust me with that much?"
Because I can't imagine walking into that room without you beside me. Because somewhere in the last two weeks, you became essential, and I don't know how to undo it. Because I'm terrified of what I feel for you and even more terrified of losing you. Because two nights ago I had my fingers inside you and I've thought of nothing else since, and I want more, want everything, want to spend hours learning every way to make you fall apart.
"Because you've earned it," I say instead. It's true, even if it's not the whole truth.
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she extends her hand, palm up.
Something in my chest tightens.
I take her hand before I can second-guess myself. Her fingers are cool in mine, slender, scarred across the knuckles from years of fighting. I remember these fingers gripping my shoulders in the war room. Remember her nails digging into my skin through my shirt as she came.
I slide the ring onto her finger. Too large. It slips loosely past her knuckle.
"Wait here."
I return a moment later with a gold chain. Not delicate, but solid links with weight to them, the kind that won't break if someone grabs it in a fight.
Without asking permission, I thread the ring through the chain and step closer to fasten it around her neck. My fingers brush the nape of her neck, and she goes very still.
Her skin is cool beneath my touch. Soft. I remember tracing this same skin, remember the way she shivered when my lips found the spot just below her ear.
I take longer than necessary to fasten the clasp. Let my fingers linger against her neck, her shoulders, the top of her spine. She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
The ring settles against her chest, just below her collarbone. Right over her heart.
My ring. Against her skin.
Something primal settles in my chest. Something possessive that I thought I'd buried centuries ago.
Mine.
She looks down at the ring resting against her, then back up at me. We're standing too close. I can see the flecks of amber in her dark eyes, the faint scar at her temple, the curve of her lower lip. I can see the way her breath has quickened.
Two nights ago, I touched her. Two nights ago, I learned what sounds she makes when she's close, when she's desperate, when she shatters. Two nights ago, I tasted her on my fingers and promised her more.
We haven't had more. There hasn't been time, not with the crisis consuming every waking hour, not with six donors dead and a traitor unmasked and Konstantin's threat growing by the day.
But standing here now, with my ring against her heart and her scent filling my lungs, I can't remember why any of that matters.
"Maximus." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"I know." I force myself to step back, to put distance between us before I do something inadvisable. "We need to focus on tomorrow. On what's coming."
"And after?"
The words hang between us. Loaded. Dangerous.
I remember what I promised her in the war room.When wehave more time. When I can spread you out beneath me and take my time and make you come apart on my tongue.
