His hand rises slowly, giving me time to retreat, to hold the wall I’ve maintained all week. But Iremain still as his palm cups my cheek, his callused thumb grazing the corner of my mouth.
“Emily.” My name in his mouth sounds like a question, a plea, a statement of fact.
“This isn’t—” My objection dissolves as his thumb traces my jawline, the gentle pressure unraveling my resistance.
“It is,” he whispers, leaning in.
The first brush of his lips over mine is tentative, a question I answer by leaning in. His hand slips to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. Chili peppers and peanuts linger on his breath from dinner, and beneath it all lives the unmistakable warmth of Jared.
Nothing about this kiss echoes our first desperate collision in the kitchen, all hunger and impulse. It moves with reverence instead, every motion intentional. His free hand finds mine on the table, fingers interlacing, palm to palm.
The scent of cedar and glue in the air mingles with the salt of skin and the growing push of salt air and driftwood as Jared’s pheromones rise to surround us. The combination melts something long frozen inside me, like a warped board finally yielding to heat and patience.
When we part, Jared’s forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my lips. “I keep thinkingI’m making things harder for you. That maybe I’m another weight you have to carry.”
“You don’t make things harder,” I whisper. “You stir up the parts of me I buried to survive. It’s not the same as dragging me down.”
“I know.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “And I want to be there while you patch yourself back together. If you’ll let me.”
The dragon sits forgotten on the table, its wing held firm in the clamp’s embrace, beginning the slow process of becoming whole again.
I cover his hand with mine, turning my head to kiss his palm.
“I’d like that,” I say, the words a surrender.
I can’t fight the pull between us anymore, the way two broken pieces find their shape again when they finally align.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jared
Emily’s pulse flutters beneath my thumb, a hummingbird caught in the cage of her throat. Our breaths mingle in the warm workshop, the air filled with everything I equate with the beautiful, vulnerable woman before me.
The lamp highlights the silver strands of her hair, the curve of her cheekbone under my palm, and the unexpected lushness of her bottom lip when she relaxes.
Neither of us moves, as if a single shift might shatter the fragile moment.
Emily keeps her eyes closed, one hand braced on the table edge while the other clutches mine. I want to memorize every detail, from the tiny scar at the corner of her mouth to the slight furrow ofher brow to the way her chest rises and falls with each uneven breath.
When she opens her eyes, they shine silver in the lamplight, filled with questions she won’t ask. Fear. Hope. Doubt. All swimming beneath the surface.
I expect her to step back, to rebuild the walls she’s kept between us all week, but she stays rooted in place.
Instead of pulling away, I lean closer, keeping my palm against her jaw. “You don’t have to hold it together right now. Not here. Not with me.”
Her breath catches, half laugh and half sob. A tremor runs through her body, from her shoulders down to where my other hand now rests at her waist. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Yeah, I do.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip, feeling its slight tremble.
This time, when I lean in, she meets me halfway. The kiss deepens, her mouth opening beneath mine with a sigh that travels straight to my groin. She releases her hold on the table to find the front of my shirt, gripping the fabric. I move my hands to her hips, drawing her to stand so I’m not leaning over her, then steadying her when she sways toward me.
Her taste floods my senses with coffee, cinnamon, and the faint warmth of Thai spices leftover from dinner. Without pheromones to guide me, I navigate by touch and sound and taste, learning her responses through the slight catch in her breath when I tilt my head just so, the way her grip tightens when I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue.
Time stretches into honey-slow moments marked only by the increasing urgency of our mouths.
“Emily,” I breathe her name into the kiss, and she responds with a soft noise in the back of her throat.
Her body softens beneath my hands, tension melting away with each passing second. From the moment Auren stepped into the market, she’s been coiled tight, waiting for the next blow. Now, that protective shell unwinds in slow, quiet increments.