He tipped up my chin with a fingertip.
“Better?”
“Better.” I stretched up and pressed my mouth to his. I meant only to thank him, to feel him, but the kiss deepened and evolved, became hungrier and more demanding, like we both needed to assure ourselves that we were alive.
That we were together.
He twined his hands through my hair, hungry and lavish, needing and offering. He drew me against him, close enough that I could feel the hard muscle beneath his tunic and the breadth of his arousal. I wanted more. I wanted everything, and the consequences be damned.
And once again, he was the one who drew away.
“As much,” he said, his forehead against mine, “as I would like to give you more pleasure, you’re exhausted, and I don’t want to take advantage of that.”
I wanted more pleasure, and I didn’t feel taken advantage of. But I was exhausted.
“You can sleep here, if you don’t want to be alone. And you can take the bed,” he added at my raised brows. “Soldiers are accustomed to sleeping on floors.”
Or not sleeping at all. As much as I wanted it to be easy like that—that I might just stay the night—I knew that was impossible. “Catalaya would cause trouble.”
“I can handle her.”
“I don’t doubt your motivations. I know you’re one of the good ones. But the system doesn’t like good ones.”
“No, it doesn’t. But thank you for saying that.” He kissed the inside of my palm as he looked at me with sapphire eyes, and I thought he might be a storybook prince after all.
Twenty-nine
Wren was awake when I checked on her the next morning, sitting among a pile of pillows and embroidered coverlets, her hair contained by a ruffled sleeping cap.
She glanced up, then looked down at her book again. “If you try to apologize again, I’ll punch you.”
“That’s not what I was thinking,” I said, and pointed to my head.
She frowned, reached up, and yanked off the cap. “Adding insult to injury,” she said.
“Orda or Talia?”
“Both, I think.” She threw back the covers, revealing the beruffled sleeping gown they’d put her in.
“That is quite a garment.”
“Another insult to injury.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I was run up and down a washboard a few thousand times. I could feel the Anima; it was like…flames inside myskin. And I couldn’t make my arms move the way I wanted to. I was in there, but someone else was in control.”
I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back, and said nothing else about it. And I knew better than to ask.
“How’s your head?” she asked. “Sanj told me I hit you.”
“Only sore when I touch it.”
“Sanj said the other strongholders were healing. Good work.”
I nodded.
She frowned. “What’s wrong?”
