Page 133

Ronan had told me only minutes earlier that Wildhearts bonded with shifters, sometimes with more than one.

I looked at the thin silver line around my wrist, and the meaning of it settled heavily into place.

“Silas,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to tell Ronan, except that keeping it from him suddenly felt dishonest. “It’s Silas.”

“I know.” Ronan kept his attention on my wrist. “Rain and pine. I’ve been able to smell him on you for weeks.”

His voice stayed perfectly even, but his thumb had stopped moving. It rested over my pulse now, and my heartbeat was beginning to quicken beneath his fingers. There was no chance he could miss it.

“Does it bother you?” I asked.

He was quiet for a long moment before he answered.

“The dragon in me learned when I was nine years old not to want anything it wasn’t permitted to keep,” he said at last, his voice lower than before. “It has been very obedient ever since.”

His thumb remained over my pulse.

“Until now,” he added. “It finds the experience educational.”

A shaky laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Ronan finally looked up.

His amber irises had darkened, and a muted orange glow was beginning to gather beneath them.

For weeks, he had been giving me every fragment of truth he was allowed to offer, even when doing so hurt him. I had wanted him since the first time one of his fingertips brushed the back of my hand over a ledger, and maybe before that. For three months, I had watched him measure every movement around me and deny himself even the smallest unnecessary touch.

This time, I didn’t make it easier for him.

I kissed him.

There was no plan behind it and no moment of careful thought. I simply rose onto my toes in the middle of the Archive, my wrist still held in his hot hand, and pressed my mouth to his.

For the first second, he stayed completely still. I felt the sudden tension move through him as every muscle in his body locked beneath the effort of restraint.

Then his restraint broke.

He dropped my wrist and brought both hands into my hair, holding my head as he kissed me with all the urgency he had been—apparently—suppressing for months. There was nothing formal or measured about him now. His mouth was hot, his hands were hot, and he kissed me with a force that made it obvious how much control the careful version of Ronan had required.

He moved me backward without breaking the kiss until my shoulders met the shelves behind me. A book fell somewhere to my left and hit the floor with a heavy thump, but neither of us looked toward it. His body pressed close to mine, and through our clothes I felt the hard length of his cock against me.

Heraldry, I thought distantly, because apparently some corner of my mind was still functioning. We were in Heraldry.

Ronan kissed along my jaw and then moved to my throat, keeping to the uninjured side. His mouth was open and slow against my skin. When he found the place beneath my ear and breathed there, the heat of it traveled through me so sharply that my hands tightened in the front of his dark coat and pulled him closer.

“Ronan,” I whispered.

He lifted his head.

His eyes were blazing now, orange and gold, no longer entirely human. Above his open collar, the brand at his throat had begun to glow again. The dull red had already begun to brighten toward orange, and I could see the pain in the tight set of his jaw.

“Your throat.” I gripped his coat with both hands. “Why is it burning? You’re not telling me anything.”

“I was ordered not to involve myself with you.” The brand flared brighter as soon as he said it. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move away. “Apparently the oath considers this involvement.”

“Ronan—”

“It binds my hands as well as my tongue, Miss Hale.” His eyes held mine. “I knew what touching you would cost.” His mouth returned to my jaw. “I don’t care.”