His thumb traces the line of my jaw. “You believe I brought you here to weaken you.”
“I believe you brought me somewhere beautiful so I would forget to fight.”
His eyes darken, but he’s not offended. He’s pleased.
“And is it working?”
I glance at the drifting lights, the endless green below us.
“Perhaps,” I admit.
“This is my kingdom,” he says, voice low. “I would rather offer you the sweetness of its fruit than force you to swallow it.”
“That sounds dangerously like confidence.”
“It is.”
“And if I refuse the fruit?”
His hand slides to my waist.
“Then I will stand here,” he says quietly, “until you decide whether you are refusing me, or lying to yourself.” His lips brush mine softly.
My lips part instinctively. He deepens the kiss, and I go liquid. The kiss grows hungry, full of need. I taste citrus and heat and the memory of him pressed against me in the bed.
He exhales against my mouth softly. It’s need, but it pulls at me, too. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.His hands roam my back, careful at first, then more insistent. The bride mark flares faintly on my finger, a pulse of heat that spreads to every nerve in my body.
He bites my lip, just enough to pinch a little, and I gasp into his mouth.
“Too much?” he asks, the words a growl against my cheek.
I shake my head. “Not enough,” I admit.
His breath shudders, pleased and restrained all at once.
For a moment, the jungle feels like it belongs only to us. I feel alive, like the jungle itself is energizing me.
I lean back just far enough to search his face.
“What would you have done,” I ask quietly, “if you’d brought me here the first night?”
His eyelids narrow to slits. “I would have waited.”
“For what?”
“For you to stop looking at me like I was your executioner.”
My throat tightens. “And if the Stone hadn’t pushed?” I press. “If there had been no mark. No ceremony. No bond.”
He studies me now, his fierce eyes searching mine. “You think I want obedience born of magic?”
“I think you like inevitability,” I breathe.
His fingers slide into my hair, cradling my head. "I like it when you walk toward me," he says. "Not when you are dragged."
A spark ignites low in my core.
“I don’t want to be claimed,” I breathe. “I don’t want fate deciding for me.”
