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“Mhm.” I take another step. Now there’s barely any space between us, and I can feel the tension rolling off him. He wants me. He can deny it all he fucking wants, but his body has already given him away.
He shoves my chest. “Back up.”
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He tries to push me back harder, and I let myself give maybe half an inch before closing the distance again, enough to make it obvious that if I wanted to overpower him here, I could.
But I won’t.
“Kiss me again and I’ll—”
“What?” I interrupt softly. “You’ll what, my prince?”
His jaw sets. “Don’t call me that.”
My hand slides over his where it’s pressed against my chest, then up his forearm. I can feel the tension in every muscle as it tightens under my touch. “It’s what you are.”
His breathing is starting to turn uneven. I look down at where his palm meets my skin.
“Can you stop with these games?”
I tilt my head and study the anger in his face. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
He pushes harder at my chest. “What the fuck do you think is bothering me?”
“That I kissed you?”
“Yes.”
“Or that you kissed me back?”
His eyes flash murder. “There was blood loss involved,” he says coldly.
I smile. “On my side, not yours.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, which is deeply satisfying considering how rarely Ilya runs out of words.
“Tell me to leave.”
His breath catches. “What?”
“Tell me to leave,” I repeat, softer now. “And mean it.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then he says, “Leave.”
“Mean it.”
His hand leaves my chest only to shove me by the shoulder this time.
I let myself rock back one step for the sake of his pride.
His face is flushed now. “If you kiss me again,” he says, lower, “I’ll actually stab you properly this time.”
“My prince,” I murmur, “you say the sweetest things.”
