He takes two strides, and he’s close to me again. He doesn’t touch me, but he fills my world. I look up, determined not to flinch again. He looks down, eyes burning. We’re so close that I almost feel like we’re touching already. I hold steady, though my heart beats like a trapped bird.
He braces one hand against the stone at my side, his bicep close to my cheek. The other hand hovers, inches from my jaw, and I sense the restraint in every sinew. He could kiss me, touch me, toss me in the pool, pin me to the furs.
He does none of it.
Instead, he waits.
My breath comes fast and shallow, but it’s not from fear. There’s something worse—the awareness of being desired so strongly. My skin prickles. I curse the Stone, the way it rerouted my nerves, made me soft to the possibility of him. Even if it’s not in my mind now, it’s still to blame for how I’m even considering the pleasures I might find here, with this alien male.
Right?
His lips part, just a little. He draws in my scent slowly, eyes fluttering closed momentarily as if savoring a forbidden treat. When he opens them again, I find myself caught in an intensegaze. His pupils dilate until the gold disappears entirely, leaving black rimmed in ember red, like coals waiting for breath.
I whisper, “Are you going to hurt me?”
Rythar gives me one small shake of his head, and his hand at my jaw curls, then relaxes. He leans in until his mouth hovers at my ear. His breath is light. He says no words, but I close my eyes, parsing the meaning. He draws back, studies my face, and finally lets the hand drop. He turns away, shoulders rising and falling as if steadying himself. He kneels by the pool and scoops up a double handful of water. He splashes it over his face, then repeats.
He sits back on his heels, face dripping, then fixes me with a look. It's a question.
"Am I supposed to read your mind now? Is that part of the bride package, or an upgrade?"
“Come here,” he says.
I shake my head.
His eyes narrow. "You’re afraid."
"You're very pleased with yourself." My voice is flat. "Congratulations. You've correctly identified that the woman locked in a room with you is afraid."
He tilts his head. "You talk more when you're afraid."
"I talk more when I'm furious. Take notes," I snap. I walk to him, to show both of us that I’m not afraid.
He stands, and water slides down his throat and gathers in the hollow at its base—the one place on him that feels exposed despite all that power. My gaze catches there. I imagine my mouth there, the slow drag of my tongue through the droplets, the path I would trace up his neck to his jaw. The thought almost overrides my need to escape him. I don’t know what he would do if I touched him like that. The thought is terrifying and magnetic. I want the answer far more than I should.
I bend to the pool and let its beauty distract me from Rythar. I can see all the way to the clean-swept light blue bottom. I dip a hand in. The warm water is soft against my fingers. I can’t help the sigh that escapes.
Rythar's voice comes from above. "It heals soreness. Any soreness. Fromallactivities." The emphasis is loaded.
I rise fast. "That's the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever said to me at knifepoint."
Rythar’s brows knit together. "You are not at knifepoint."
"Your hands are weapons. The door is locked. Splitting hairs, Rythar."
His frowns deepens. "You are not bleeding. You are not bound. You are not?—"
"Home." I cut him off. The word comes out sharper than I meant. "I'm not home. Everyone I have ever known is dead or lost or running, and you want to talk to me about soreness. Fromactivities."
His face does something complicated.
I pushed him too far.
He is quiet for a long moment. "What do you need?"
"Give me back my life." My voice shakes. It's too high, choked. "My friends. Find Sophia, because she's still out there. Can your magic water fix any of that?"
He is very still. "No."
