“Neither do I.”
Dax searched her face.
“You knew who I was?”
“Yes.”
“You knew it was not going to cure you?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted me rather than simply wanting the pain to stop?”
Veya pushed herself higher against him.
“I knew whose mouth I was kissing, Dax.”
His hand settled against the back of her neck.
“That was not quite the question.”
“I wanted you in the garden. I wanted you when you brought me blood and tried to convince me black coffee was a character flaw. I wanted you before Rhen fed me, and I wanted you after he told me I meant nothing.”
Her gaze remained steady.
“I did not sleep with you because he rejected me. There was nothing between Rhen and me to reject.”
Some tension left Dax’s shoulders.
Veya noticed.
“You were worried about that.”
“I was worried the tether had taken another choice from you and dressed it in my face.”
“It didn’t.”
Dax brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
“Good.”
The word held more emotion than he intended.
Veya rested her head against him again.
“What happens now?”
Dax looked toward the dying hearth.
“The medical staff examine you once you are ready. We determine whether the symptoms are returning. We continue trying to understand what Rhen’s blood did to you.”
“I meant between us.”
He became still.
Veya waited.
Dax had spent centuries escaping questions more threatening than this one with charm, violence, or a strategic retreat. None of those options felt acceptable while she lay against him.
