Page 19 of She Who Was Severed

He leans in, slow enough that I feel it first in my stomach.

My pulse kicks. Hard.

He’s so close I can taste his breath. Smoke. Salt. The faint bite of ashwater.

But he doesn’t close the space.

His voice is barely audible. “Freya—”

I don’t let him finish. Not with words. I turn just enough that my mouth almost brushes his.

Almost.

But I stop there.

Because I want him to be the one who breaks.

He doesn’t.

But gods, he wants to.

I feel it in the air before I see it—in the way his breath shortens, in the slow, deliberate stillness that says he’s fighting something with every muscle. His shoulders tense. His jaw locks like he’s biting down on a command he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

And worse, I want him to.

It coils low and sharp—heat curling in my belly, blooming behind my ribs, rising like a hunger I’ve never had permission to name. My breath catches on the edge of it. Not just need. Ache. The kind that makes my hands twitch and my skin feel too tight. Like every inch of me is waiting for his mouth, his hands, his heat.

I want him desperate.

Not clean. Not careful.

I want the restraint to snap. I want him to stop pretending he’s golden. I want to taste the fire he keeps hidden in his throat and see if it burns worse than mine.

And gods, I want to be the reason he loses control.

But he doesn’t move.

He just watches.

Like he’s already touching me in every way that matters and holding back anyway.

And it makes me ravenous.

The air hums between us. The chain pulses once.

And then he pulls back. Just enough to break the spell.

“I’ll stay,” he says.

And he does. Silent. Still.

But when I shift beside him, just slightly, his hand brushes mine.

And he doesn’t pull away.

But neither of us breathes right for the rest of the night.

Chapter 3