Another almost-laugh, and he so badly wanted to turn his head and lean into her. What would it be like to feel that breath of laughter against his neck? To whisper something in her ear and feel her press her lips against his?—
Stars above, stop it right now!
“I do not think it will take you much longer. The two of you seem to be getting along a great deal better than I ever would have predicted. Though I suppose I cannot fault him. He has excellent—” She seemed to realize what she was about to say and caught herself before the words could come. Then she finished anyway, quieter now: “Excellent taste.”
Kazrian’s lips parted, but he could not fathom what to say in response to that.
Do not turn your head. Do not look at her.
“Well, except in matters of confectionery,” she added quickly, a small, strained laugh filling the silence he had failed to. “If left unsupervised, he would put sardine oil in everything I make and consider it an improvement.”
Kazrian smiled at that. “Perhaps he is simply ahead of his time. Sardine oil truffles may be the one innovation The Honeycomb has been lacking.”
She laughed properly this time, and he felt the cushions shift with it. The urge to look at her was almost overwhelming.
Ceiling. Eyes on the ceiling.
The laughter faded, and in the quiet that followed he became aware of other things. The faint scent of vanilla and honey. The small, unmistakable shift of her arm beside his. If the distance between them narrowed any further, he was going to have to launch himself off this bed and return to the blessedly uncomfortable floor, because there were limits to what could reasonably be asked of a person.
“I am glad you are here,” she said softly.
He squeezed his eyes shut and bit back the groan that threatened to climb up the back of his throat, because the knowledge that shewantedhim here wasNOT. HELPING.
“I am … glad of it too,” he said in a voice that sounded oddly strangled.
A pause. The rain filled it.
He heard her shift beside him, the whisper of linen, and his hand clenched at his side because for one terrible, exquisite instant he was certain she had turned toward him.
She had not. When he risked the briefest glance sideways, he could see only the outline of her profile, chin tilted toward the ceiling, her face turned slightly away.
She was staring at the ceiling too.
Good. That was good. Two people staring at a ceiling. Nothing remotely agonizing about that.
“Are you … comfortable?” she asked.
“Exceedingly.”
He was not. He was the furthest thing from comfortable that a person could be while lying on a surface that was, objectively, quite soft. Every muscle in his body was held at a tension that could not possibly be sustainable for the remainder of the night.
“You do not sound comfortable.”
“I assure you, I am perfectly?—”
“You sound as though you are lying on a plank.”
A plank might be preferable at this point.He decided not to say that out loud and instead managed a long, steadying breath through his nose. “I am—merely tired.” Then, in a gentler tone: “I am sure you are too. After … everything.”
The memory surfaced before he could stop it, her voice in the dark, coming apart on the wordsI can’t breathe.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Well … good night … I suppose?”
“Good night.”
The rain continued.
Neither of them moved.
