She swallowed hard, hesitating before answering. “I… particularly love when protagonists confess their feelings.”
Heath studied her, noting the way she shifted under his gaze. “Why those moments?”
Her voice softened. “Because they’re beautiful.” She lifted her chin slightly, as though steeling herself. “Passion and desire revealed through truth. Two souls society would keep apart, discovering mutual affection. Their hearts no longer lonely, beating as one thereafter.”
She inhaled, catching the trace of his scent—a rich blend of cedarwood and something darker, something wholly masculine. It sent a shiver racing through her spine, a sensation so foreign, so undeniably real that she scarcely knew what to do with it.
Heath chuckled, his amusement evident.
“You’re a romantic,” he teased.
A flush crept up Blanche’s neck, but she did not refute him.
This was the kind of moment she had only ever read about—the quiet, stolen intimacy between a heroine and her dark, enigmatic suitor. And for the first time, she understood.
She understood the fluttering anticipation, the fevered curiosity, the breathless thrill of what might happen next.
Heath exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch just enough before answering.
“Real life isn’t so poetic.”
“Hence why I cherish books,” she murmured, her gaze dropping momentarily to the ground. “Those heartfelt confessions igniting such fiery passion?—”
His fingers brushed against her bare wrist, skimming just above the edge of her glove.
“Are you as passionate as you are sentimental?”
Her breath hitched. “Yes,” she admitted, the words barely above a whisper—as if speaking them aloud cost her something.
Heath’s gaze darkened, his touch trailing up her arm. “I deeply admire passion, Lady Blanche.”
The space between them felt smaller now, the intimacy of the grove wrapping around them like a secret.
The grove was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees, their ancient trunks standing like silent sentinels around them.
Heath exhaled, eyes flickering over her with quiet intensity. “I believe that passion is the color that gives meaning to the days.” His voice was smooth, deliberate.
Her breath hitched, fingers curling slightly at his words.
Dappled sunlight broke through the canopy, casting shifting patterns upon the forest floor. It smelled of damp earth, of the lingering fragrance of blossoms, as if nature itself conspired to cradle them in secrecy.
His hand moved slowly—deliberately—lifting to trace the gentle curve of her chin.
Blanche did not flinch, did not retreat. She allowed the touch, allowed the moment, her pulse fluttering wildly as he guided her gaze toward his.
Their eyes met—deep, searching, lingering in silent understanding.
“Is this what you imagined?” Heath asked, his voice a murmur against the stillness.
Blanche’s breath came unsteadily, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession.
Is it?
She had spent years devouring novels, losing herself in the words of heroines who dreamed of love, who whispered secrets into moonlit nights, who surrendered to the soft pull of temptation.
But never had she imagined this. Never had she felt something so real. “I—” Her voice wavered, uncertain.
Heath did not press her to finish.
