Page 139 of A Thief Among Fae

Desmond nips my lips. Then he pulls away, his fingers still entangled in my hair. We stare at each other, our breath fogging between us. The air is still so cold.

“The exit is still sealed,” he says quietly. “Our first priority should be warming up. Then we can work on getting out.”

The moment is over. As badly as I want to keep kissing him, my survival instincts are taking over. We’re not out of danger yet.

“I packed fire starters,” I tell him, so relieved that I had filled my enchanted pack with supplies from the carriage that tears sting my eyes. My pack was swept off my shoulder when the current became impossible to fight. I see it across the chamber and levitate it toward us.

Desmond digs through it with urgent abandon, then pulls out the fire starters, matches, and kindling. He lights a fire, and we kneel beside it. Then he pulls a clean cloak out of the pack and drapes it around my shoulders like a blanket.

We hold our hands dangerously close to the flames. The shock from cold to hot on my skin is a searing pain, but I force myself to endure it.

“I appreciate you sullying another cloak for me,” I murmur, remembering when he bandaged me in the market. He seemed so cold and distant when we met, yet he’s always gone out of his way to show me kindness. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out which was the real him—the cold fae prince or the golden-hearted man dreaming of peace.

He watches the flames, his gaze solemn. “Nothing is worth so much to me that I wouldn’t destroy it to keep you safe.”

I stare at him, and he looks at me with a softness that makes my pulse flutter. “No one’s ever—” I pause, nervous to admit it. “No one’s ever said something like that to me before.”

I feel a pang of shared sorrow through our bond. “You deserve so much more,” he says with a quiet reverence that makes my chest tighten.

So does he.

I’m never going to see him again once we leave the tomb. We’re alone now. So what’s stopping me from telling him how I feel?

I swallow, looking away to gaze at the flames. It’s easier than seeing how he’ll react. My stomach drops from nervousness. “You deserve to be held every night so nightmares never haunt you again,” I tell him. “You deserve to travel, to find and read any book you want. And you deserve to see your people freed, to be adored by them as a prince who has sacrificed so much for them.”

His shock is palpable in the silence. All I hear is the faint crackling of the kindling as I sneak a glance at him. His throat works, like he can’t find any words. Then he finally says, “Take your clothes off.”

“What?” I squeak out. I must’ve heard him wrong. “Did you just say. . .”

“You’ll freeze to death if you disobey,” he says, his voice low as if raked over coals.

The gravel in his voice sends a shudder through me like an electric shock down my spine. Still, I glare at him. “I just bared my heart to you, and the first thing you say is ‘take your clothes off’?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re pale and shaking. Sitting in wet clothes is doing more harm than good.” His worry pulses through me, and finally, I relent.

“Fine,” I huff. I grasp the laces of my gambeson. “But you’re shaking just as much as I am.” As I try to pinch the cord, my fingers slip, too numb to feel it. “Shit, if I could only. . .”

Desmond gently grabs my hands and holds them out toward the fire. His brows pinch with concern. “Let me do it.”

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s unlaced my clothes, but it feels different now. I try to tell myself it’s because every last layer needs to go so we can dry off, but I know that isn’t it. It’s the kiss. As he swallows, reaching for the laces, the kiss is all I can think about.

“Go ahead,” I tell him, unable to look away from his lips.

His fingers tremble as the laces slip out of his grip. He bites his bottom lip in concentration, an endearing sight, and unweaves the grommets. When he finishes, he tosses my gambeson aside.

“Do you want me to. . ?” He holds the hem of my tunic but pauses, looking at me with a question in his wide eyes. Those velvet lips press into a tight line.

My stomach squeezes. I’ve never seen him look so flustered.

I nod.

The soaked tunic slides against my body as he pulls it off me. The rowan berry necklace comes off with it. I hiss as the cold air meets my bare arms, but then the warmth of the fire cradles me. “This is better,” I admit, but I fail to suppress another shiver.

My drenched pants feel glued to my thighs and my white bustier is as translucent as a wet sheet against the swell of my breasts, my nipples hard from the cold. The clothing blocks any of the fire’s warmth from reaching my torso or my legs. It’s miserable.

I peel my bustier off my body. I set it down, hesitate, and turn to look at him.

Desmond isn’t looking at my bare skin, despite my breasts being shamelessly exposed. Instead, he brushes his thumb across my lips, meeting my gaze with a quiet wonder that makes my chest ache. “Your lips are warmer already,” he says. “Do you feel better?”