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“Excuse me?”

“We’ve discussed this. You don’t get to order me around just because you’re tall, gorgeous, and apparently allergic to shirts.”

I smile.

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

I approach until only inches separate us.

“Calla.”

“Morpheus.”

“Touch me.”

Her eyebrows rise.

“Wow. Still working on those manners, huh?”

I grit my teeth.

Three thousand years of divine authority, reduced to negotiating with a woman who has absolutely no respect for it.

“Please,” I say.

Her expression softens.

“See? Was that so hard?”

“More than you know.”

She laughs.

Then lifts her hand.

I watch her fingers approach my chest.

My entire existence seems to narrow to those final inches.

“Wait,” she whispers.

I nearly roar.

“What?”

“Can you actually feel this?”

“Only when you touch me willingly.”

She studies my face.

“Why?”

“Because my father was a cruel bastard who believed eternity inside stone would teach me obedience.”

Her smile disappears.