His mouth trails down my throat, fangs scraping lightly over my pulse point, and I actually whimper at the sensation. The sound seems to shatter something in him because suddenly his hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, gripping my hips, sliding up to cup my breasts through the thin fabric.
“Aelin,” I gasp, my head falling back against the stone. “Please…”
“What do you need?” His voice is rough, desperate, and when I look down at him his eyes are molten gold, pupils blown wide with want. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I breathe, my hands sliding down to grip his shoulders. “Just you. All of you.”
He makes a sound as if I’ve wounded him, his forehead dropping to rest against my collarbone. I can feel his breath hot against my skin, can feel the tremor in his hands where they grip my waist.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, but his thumbs are stroking over my nipples through the fabric, making me arch and gasp. “What I want to do to you.”
“Then show me.” I tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Stop holding back and show me what you need.”
For a moment, something wild and hungry flickers in his expression. His hands tighten on my waist, and I think he’s going to lift me up, press me harder against the stone, take what we both want so desperately.
Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, his whole body going rigid with the effort of pulling back.
“No,” he says, but his voice cracks on the word. “Not like this. You deserve better.”
“I deserve honesty,” I snap, frustration and arousal making my voice sharp. “I deserve to know what’s happening to you instead of being shut out like I’m some fragile thing that can’t handle the truth.”
He pulls back to look at me, his eyes wild and golden and utterly unlike anything human. There’s something feral in his expression now, something that should terrify me but only makes me burn hotter.
“You don’t understand,” he says, his voice rough with need. “What’s happening to me—what you’re doing to me?—”
“Then tell me.” I reach up to cup his face, feeling the sharp line of his cheekbones, the subtle ridges that weren’t there before. “Stop protecting me from the truth and let me decide if I can handle it.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to give in. I can see the longing in his eyes, the desperate need to share this burden with someone who might understand. Then something shifts, some wall slamming back into place, and he’s stepping away from me.
“No.” The word is flat, final. “You’re human. You couldn’t possibly?—”
“Don’t.” The anger that’s been building in my chest finally explodes, hot and bright and liberating. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
He stares at me, clearly not expecting the vehemence in my voice.
“I’m human, yes. But I’m not stupid, and I’m not weak, and I’m sure as hell not some delicate flower that needs protecting from reality.” I wrap the fur around myself again, armor against his rejection. “You want to know what I can’t handle? I can’t handle being lied to. I can’t handle being treated like my feelings don’t matter, like my choices aren’t my own to make.”
“Jessa…”
“No.” I hold up a hand, stopping him. “You told me twenty-one days. You told me we’d figure this out together. But you’re not trying to figure anything out. You’re just… enduring. Waiting for this inconvenient attraction to burn itself out so you can go back to your safe, lonely existence.”
The words hit him like physical blows. I can see it in the way he flinches, in the pain that flashes across his face.
“That’s not?—”
“Isn’t it?” I let out a humorless laugh. “You rescue me from the storm, bring me to your private sanctuary, let me sleep in your bed. You kiss me like you’re drowning and I’m the only thing that can save you. But the moment things get real, the moment I push for answers, you shut down and start talking about taking me home.”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he says, but the words are hollow.
“According to whom? Your council? Your duty? Or just your own fear?” I take a step toward him, and he actually retreats. “You’re terrified, Aelin. Not of me, but of what wanting me means. Of what it would cost you to choose something for yourself instead of just accepting what fate has decided.”
“You think this is about choice?” His voice rises, genuine anger bleeding through the careful control. “You think I chose any of this? The bond, the hunger, the way every instinct I possess screams at me to claim you?”
“No,” I whisper. “But you can choose what to do about it. You can choose to trust me with the truth, to let me help you carry whatever burden is eating you alive. Or you can choose to push me away and face it alone.”
“And if the truth destroys you?” The question is barely a whisper, raw with pain. “If knowing what I am, what I need, breaks something in you that can never be fixed?”
“Then that’s my choice to make.” I reach for him again, and this time he doesn’t pull away. “My risk to take. My heart to break if it comes to that.”
