Page 105 of Reaper Said Mine

“Professional boundaries,” she says, though her voice has roughened.

“Again?”

“Still.”

“Terrible things.”

“You said that already.”

“It remains true.”

She stands, gathering cups because she needs something to do with her hands. I recognize the tactic because I have used battle reports the same way. Anything can become armor if one holds it tightly enough.

I take the cups from her before she can stack them badly. Our fingers brush.

The contact is small. It is also ruinous.

Ursa inhales, and the sound slips under my skin. Her pupils widen. The bond tightens, no longer a pull but a current, a living line drawn between my chest and hers. I can feel the restraint in her, the fierce effort to remain herself inside something neither of us asked for and neither of us can deny. I respect that restraint. I hate it. I would defend it against myself if necessary.

“You asked me earlier what begins after the interview,” I say.

Her eyes lift to mine. “I remember.”

“I still do not know.”

“That makes two of us.”

“But I know what does not begin.” I set the cups aside and keep my hands visible. “You do not become another territory I take because the bond says mine.”

Her face changes, and the softness there nearly breaks something in me.

“Gnash,” she says quietly.

“I claimed you in front of half the station because every instinct in me rose at once and became voice. I do not regret the truth of it, but I regret giving you no warning.”

“You were not exactly in a calm negotiating environment.”

“I have been in many violent rooms without declaring reporters my soul-bound mate.”

“That’s probably good for your press relations.”

My mouth curves despite the weight inside me. “Probably.”

She steps closer, and because she chooses it, I hold very still. Her hand rises to touch my forearm just below the ridge of bone spur. Human fingers, warm and careful, against skin most of the galaxy thinks exists only to frighten. I feel the pressure all the way into my throat.

“I’m not angry you claimed me,” she says. “I’m overwhelmed. There’s a difference.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do. You’re used to everything becoming action. Threat, answer. Need, seize. Enemy, strike. But this thing between us is not going to make sense faster because you try to conquer the confusion.”

I huff a soft laugh. “You turn affection into criticism very quickly.”

“I’m gifted.”

“Yes.”

Her fingers shift against my arm, and the touch becomes less accidental. “I’m saying I need time, and I need honesty, and I need to know I can still tell you when you’re wrong without the bond turning that into betrayal.”