His expression tightens. “And if it happens again?”
“Then we deal with it,” I say fiercely. “Together…Right? We agreed on that.”
He exhales, sharp and frustrated, turning away as if to put distance between us. “I can’t afford to repeat old mistakes.”
Something in his tone stops me cold, before I can overthink it, I step forward and reach for him.
My fingers close around his wrist, warm against his skin. He stills instantly, every muscle going taut beneath my touch.
“Zeidan,” I say quietly. “We either let this break us… or we let it make us stronger.”
He turns slowly, his gaze searching my face as if he’s looking for something dangerous there.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says.
“I do,” I reply. “I trust you. And I need you to trust me enough to stay.”
The bond burns between us, not wild, not consuming, but insistent and alive. Zeidan’s hand lifts, hesitates, then cups my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek with a tenderness that steals my breath.
For a moment, I think he’s going to pull away. Instead, he leans in.
The kiss is not violent or rushed. It is slow, deliberate, devastating. A question and an answer all at once. The bond flares, bright and hot, wrapping around us like a living thing as I lean into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, his breath warm against my skin.
When we part, we are both breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching, the space between us so thin it feels like a held breath might shatter it.
“About your question earlier…” Zeidan murmurs, his voice rougher than I have ever heard it. His hands are still braced at my waist, not pulling me closer, not letting me go, as if he’s giving me the choice he’s denied us both until now. “If we stopped resisting the bond for just one moment… I would let it happen.”
The words settle into me slowly, not like fire, but like gravity, inevitable, steady, impossible to ignore.
I don’t answer him with words.
I lift my hand instead, fingers sliding into his hair, feeling the tension there, the restraint woven through every strand. He stills instantly, eyes searching mine, giving me one last chance to retreat. I don’t.
I kiss him.
This time it isn’t accidental. It isn’t reactive. It is deliberate and certain and terrifying in the way only honest things are. My mouth finds his with intention, and the bond responds like it has been waiting for permission all along, warmth unfurling through my chest, through my spine, through every place where fear used to sit.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, the words a raw plea against his mouth.
Zeidan’s low groan vibrates against my lips, his hands sliding from my waist to my back, pressing me flush against him. The bond sings, a searing, brilliant thread that pulls tighter with every point of contact. The world beyond our quarters, the council, the poisoned Wildspont, the accusations, shrinks to a distant, meaningless murmur. There is only this. Him. The heat of his body, the solid plane of his chest against mine, the devastatingly slow exploration of his tongue.
I pull back just enough to breathe, my forehead resting against his. “You said you’d let it happen.”
His eyes, dark and glittering with a hunger that mirrors my own, hold mine. “I did. And I am.”
How did we get here?
The thought is a flicker, lost in the tidal pull of sensation. Moments ago, we were standing in the center of the room, the charged silence after our argument still ringing in the air. His confession, had hung between us, a truth too heavy to ignore.
I had kissed him. Not to quiet him, not to defy the council, but because the wanting was a physical ache, a need carved into my bones by the bond and by him, by the relentless trust and friction between us. That first deliberate kiss was a key turning in a lock. It broke the final dam.
Now, his mouth is on my neck, his teeth scraping lightly over my pulse point, and my head falls back with a soft cry. My fingers scramble at the fastenings of his tunic, the leather cords tangling. He helps me, shrugging the garment off his shoulders, and I get my first real look at him, the powerful lines of his shoulders, the smooth skin over taut muscle, the faint, silvery scars that speak of a life lived in conflict. The sight steals my breath.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, his voice gravel-rough. His fingers find the clasps of my formal over-robe. They are deft, efficient, but his hands tremble slightly. That tiny vulnerability undoes me more than any practiced seduction could. The heavy fabric whispers to the floor, leaving me in a thin linen undershift.
The cool air of the room kisses my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. He looks at me, like he’s memorizing the shape of me, the way the fabric drapes, the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
“You are…” he begins, then stops, shaking his head as if words have failed him. He shows me instead.