He looked like he was at war with himself.
"Thallos."
His head came up sharply. For a moment, his expression was raw and uncertain, almost vulnerable. Then something flickered across his face that looked almost like fear.
"Marigold," he said roughly. "I made a scene. In front of the whole town. Your mother?—"
"My mother can wait."
She stepped into the cabin, letting the door fall closed behind her. The warmth of the fire wrapped around her, chasing away the evening chill. Three steps brought her close enough to touch him, though she didn't. Not yet.
"You defended me," she said softly.
"Of course I did." He turned to face her fully, and she could see the remnants of anger still burning in his golden eyes. "She was tearing you apart. All those stories about your past, for gods' sake—as if any of that matters. As if you're still that scared fifteen-year-old who made spreadsheets for her birthday parties."
"You remembered that?"
"I remember everything you tell me." The words came out raw, unguarded. "I remember the way you looked when I first saw you at that chamber meeting—like you were trying to disappear into the wallpaper. I remember the first time you laughed with me. I remember the way you taste." His voice dropped lower. "I remember every single time I've touched you."
Her breath caught.
"No one's ever chosen me before," she whispered. "Not like that. Not… publicly."
"Then everyone else is blind." He took a step toward her, close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "You're the most remarkable woman I've ever met, MarigoldBloom. And if I have to spend the rest of my life proving that to you, I will." He hesitated. "Unless you don't want me to."
"I want you." The words came out without hesitation. "I want everything you're offering."
His eyes closed briefly, as if in relief. When he opened them again, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by something deeper and hotter.
"Show me," he said, voice rough. "Show me what you want."
She reached for him, her hands trembling as she unbuttoned his shirt. He let her, his eyes never leaving her face, watching her like she was doing something miraculous instead of just undressing him. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor, and ran her hands over the hard muscles of his chest.
He caught her hands, brought them to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her palms.
"Your turn," he murmured, and then his fingers were on the buttons of her blouse, working them free one by one. The air was warm against her skin as he exposed it inch by inch, his gaze following his hands, burning everywhere he looked.
When her blouse joined his shirt on the floor, he paused, his eyes traveling over her with such intensity she felt naked in more ways than one.
"You're beautiful," he said simply.
She didn't argue. For the first time, she let herself believe it.
His hands went to her waist, unfastening her skirt, sliding it down her hips. She stepped out of it, then reached behind herself to unhook her bra. It fell away, and his breath caught.
"Marigold—"
"I know," she whispered. "I feel it too."
She reached for him again, tracing the line of his fur where it began at his waist. He shuddered under her touch, his cock already emerging from its sheath. She explored him with newfound confidence, learning his body the way he'd learned hers—what made him groan and what made his hands tighten on her hips.
"I want you," she said, and the simplicity of the statement was freeing. "I want you inside me."
"Then that's where I'll be."
He lifted her, carried her to the bed, laid her down against the pillows. The firelight played over her skin, over his body as he joined her, his weight a welcome pressure, his cock hot and hard against her thigh.
But when he would have entered her, she stopped him with a hand on his chest.
