Something flickers across his face—possession, maybe, or satisfaction—before he schools his expression back to careful neutrality. But I catch it, and the knowledge that he enjoys thinking about me in his bed sends heat spiraling through me.
“I made breakfast,” he says, gesturing toward the kitchen where I can smell something that makes my stomach growl audibly. “You should eat before we head back.”
“Head back?” The disappointment in my voice is embarrassing, but I can’t help it. “Already?”
“The storm has passed. You have a life to return to.” He’s not looking at me now, busying himself with stoking the fire that doesn’t need stoking. “Responsibilities.”
“So do you,” I point out, moving closer to him despite the warning signals my brain is sending. “But you’re here. In your secret hideaway, playing house with a human woman who’s apparently your fated mate.”
The wordmatemakes him go rigid, his hands stilling on the poker. When he looks at me, there’s something wild in his eyes, something barely leashed that makes my breath catch.
“Don’t,” he says, and his voice carries harmonics that seem to resonate in my bones. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Then explain it to me.” I take another step closer, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in his throat, can smell the musk of arousal that he’s trying so hard to hide. “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass and start treating me like I have a brain.”
“Your brain isn’t the problem,” he mutters, and the admission sends a thrill through me.
“No? Then what is?” I’m close enough now to touch him, close enough to see the way his pupils are dilated despite the bright morning light streaming through the windows. “You’re different this morning. I can feel it.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You can feel it. Of course you can. The bond makes you sensitive to…” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “We should go.”
“Sensitive to what?” I reach for his arm, and the moment my fingers make contact with his skin, electricity arcs between us. He jerks away like I’ve burned him, but not before I feel the tremor that runs through his whole body.
“Jessa.” My name is a warning, rough and desperate. “You need to stop.”
“Stop what? Asking questions? Touching you?” I smile, and it’s not a pleasant expression. “Or stop making you want things you think you shouldn’t want?”
The accusation hits its mark. I can see it in the way his hands clench into fists, in the way his breathing goes shallow andquick. He’s fighting something—some instinct or urge that’s getting stronger by the minute.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Don’t I?” I step into his space again, deliberately crowding him against the fireplace. “Your eyes are brighter than usual. Your voice is deeper. And you smell…” I lean closer, inhaling deliberately. “You smell like you want to devour me.”
The sound he makes is pure animal—a growl that starts low in his chest and rumbles through the air between us. His eyes flash, gold bleeding to amber, and for a moment I think I’ve pushed him too far.
Then he’s moving, faster than I can track, spinning us around until I’m the one pressed against the stone hearth. His hands brace on either side of my head, caging me in, and when he leans down his face is inches from mine.
“Is that what you want?” he snarls, and I can see fangs glinting behind his lips. “You want me to lose control? To forget that you’re human and fragile and breakable?”
“Maybe I do.” The words slip out before I can stop them, bold and reckless and completely honest. “Maybe I’m tired of being treated like I might shatter at the first rough touch.”
His breath hitches, and I can feel the heat of him burning against me, can see the war playing out in his golden eyes. Want wars with restraint, hunger battles with honor, and I’m the prize they’re fighting over.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, but his voice is strained, desperate.
“Try me.” I tilt my chin up, bringing my lips closer to his. “I’m stronger than you think, Aelin. And I want you more than you know.”
The confession hangs between us like a lit fuse, dangerous and electric. I can feel his control fraying, can see the exact moment when something primitive and possessive takes over his expression.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then his mouth is crushing down on mine.
This kiss is nothing like the one in the forest. That was desperate but careful, controlled even in its passion. This is pure hunger, raw and demanding and utterly without restraint. He kisses me like he’s starving, like I’m air and he’s been drowning, and I give as good as I get.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between us. He tastes like winter mornings and dark promises, and when he nips at my lower lip I gasp, opening for him. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, possessing, and I meet it with my own.
The fur I’m wearing slips, forgotten, pooling at my feet, and suddenly I’m pressed against him wearing nothing but the thin undershirt that barely covers my thighs. His hands span my waist, fingers burning hot against bare skin, and the touch sends lightning straight to my core.
“Christ, you’re soft,” he growls against my mouth, his hands sliding up my ribs to brush the undersides of my breasts. I arch into his touch, desperate for more, and he makes that rumbling sound again, deeper now, more resonant. “Fucking perfect.”
