He had to look at the ceiling for a moment before he could answer. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“Good. You could use some ruining.” She curled against him, fitting into the space between his arm and his ribs like the spot had been waiting for her. “You’ve spent too long being controlled. Being careful. Being the version of yourself that doesn’t scare people.”
“I am extremely impressive,” he said, but there was a crack running through the performance now, something warm and unsteady underneath.
“You’re a mess. A beautiful, scaled, overheated mess who can’t unhook a bra.” She kissed his chest, right over his heart. “And you’re mine.”
His love hit her through the bond, quiet and steady, something he’d been holding back for days and finally let through.
“Say that again,” he whispered.
“You’re mine.”
“Again.”
“You’re mine, Alessandro Draven. For as long as we have. You’re mine.”
He pulled her impossibly closer, his face pressed into her hair. His fear reached her: of the full moon, of the breakingbond, of losing this new and terrifying thing. But underneath it: hope. Stubborn, stupid hope that refused to know better.
She held onto it. Held onto him.
Outside, the late afternoon light slanted gold through the window, and somewhere below them in the bakery, Dante and Bea were arguing about whether chaos magic violated the laws of thermodynamics.
Marina traced the lines of his face like she was memorizing him.
“I felt everything,” she whispered. “Everything you felt.”
“I know.” He pressed a kiss to her palm. “I felt you too.”
“Is it always like that? With the bond?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never…” He stopped. “This is new for me too.”
She curled into him, her head on his chest, her hair tickling his chin. Her contentment settled against him like a second heartbeat, and underneath it, the fear she was trying to hide.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“So am I.”
“This ends in eleven days. The bond breaks. You go back to Manhattan.”
“I know.”
“So what are we doing?”
He held her tighter. Tried to find words for something that didn’t fit into words.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know I don’t want to stop.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.” He tilted her chin up, made her look at him. “Marina, I’ve spent ten years planning every moment of my life. Strategizing. Calculating. And none of it prepared me for you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know yet.” He kissed her forehead. “But I’m willing to find out.”
She was quiet, weighing his words, testing them against her own fears. He held still and let her.
