Page 134 of Reaper Said Mine

“Not from you.”

The words settle through me, warm and terrifying.

When I open my eyes again, his gaze has dropped to my mouth. The air between us charges, and my body remembers every near-touch, every restrained look, every moment since the feast when wanting him has become less an interruption than a tide. His hand rises to my face, knuckles grazing my cheek below the sealed cut. I should think about professional boundaries. I should think about the investigation, Dawson, Theryki, Gobold, Zune, the machine assassin, and the thousand ways this can go wrong.

Instead, I think about how gently he touches me with hands built to tear metal.

“Ursa,” he says.

The sound of my name is a question.

I answer by lifting onto my toes and touching my mouth to his.

The kiss is careful for one impossible second. Almost reverent. Then he makes a low sound in his chest, and I feel restraint shudder through him like a door holding against weather. His hand cups the back of my head, careful of the injury, while his other arm wraps more securely around me. He does not crush me. He does not take. He holds himself back with such ferocious discipline that I feel it in the tremor of his fingers.

I press closer because I choose to.

His mouth is warm, firm, and devastatingly gentle until I part my lips with a soft breath. Then the kiss deepens, and the station falls away. There is only heat, his taste, the rough brush of his fangs controlled with exquisite care, the scent of smoke and metal and him, the bond pulling bright through my chest.

When we break apart, I am breathing too hard.

So is he.

His forehead lowers until it nearly touches mine. “You should not have done that if you wanted me sensible.”

“I have seen little evidence that sensible was on the table.”

His laugh comes out ragged. “Cruel woman.”

“Honest woman.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “My honest woman.”

The possessive edge in the words should irritate me. Instead, it moves through me like heat. I lift one finger and press it lightly against his chest.

“Careful.”

His eyes search mine. “Too much?”

“Not if you remember I’m mine too.”

He covers my hand with his, holding it over the heavy beat of his heart. “I remember.”

I believe him.

Below us, the refugee district continues living. Children run across bridges. Someone shouts about a missing wrench. A baby cries and is soothed. Water moves through repaired pipes. Stew simmers. Workers argue. A station built from stolen metal and stubborn hope hums around us, carrying the weight of the dead and the demands of the living.

I stand with Gnash in the hidden heart of it, my cheek still warm from his touch and my grief no longer locked quite so tightly behind my ribs.

I wonder if being witnessed might mean something other than being used. I let myself believe the story I came to tell may not be the only thing worth saving.

CHAPTER 18

GNASH

Rumors move through a station faster than fire, and unlike fire, they enjoy the ventilation system.

By the time I leave the hidden observation alcove with Ursa’s taste still on my mouth and the warmth of her hand lingering against my chest, half of Guyver Station already knows we kissed. The other half will know before the next shift change because dockworkers have never met a truth they could not improve with volume. The corridor outside the refugee district smells of hot conduit, stew spice, wet laundry, and the faint mineral bite of recycled water. Far below us, children shout over a game that seems to involve a stolen boot and poor judgment, while somewhere above, a cargo lift complains against its brakes with a metal shriek that travels through the bones of the station.