Page 144 of Glutton for Punishment

“I understand,” she says softly. “I hate that you have to play your father’s puppet because of me.”

“You are not the reason. I was his puppet long before you came along.”

“But I make it harder,” she murmurs.

I lean into her touch before I can stop myself.

“It’s only for a little while,” I tell her. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Do you really believe that?” She asks.

“Yes. You’re worth it all, Arwen.”

Something moves across her face—grief or relief or both at once, gone before I can name it. Then her hand finds the front of my shirt, and she rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to mine.

I forget, for a moment, how to exist.

Her lips are warm and trembling and so heartbreakingly cautious, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed or if this will shatter everything we’ve built, and it’s the caution that undoes me. She’s seeking permission even now, after all this time, after all the ways I’ve hurt her.

My hands are useless at my sides for a full second, then one moves up and cups the back of her head, threading through her hair, anchoring us together. I don’t deepen the kiss—not yet. Instead, I let her explore.

And then the bond—that thing I have spent months trying to manage and contain and be reasonable about—ignites. It doesn’t flicker. It floods. Warmth pours through my chest like light through a cracked door thrown wide open, and I feel her in a way that has nothing to do with proximity.

Every sense is amplified. I can smell her hair, taste the faint salt of her skin, feel her pulse in her wrist where my thumb brushes. The distant footfalls of other students, the faint echo of laughter from the courtyard, all fade to static. There is only the two of us and the bond.

She moves her hands to my shoulders, pulling herself higher, and I bend to meet her. This time, when she kisses me, there’s a new daring in it. She parts my lips with her own, tentative and then hungrier, and I’m gone. All the self-control, the months of burying everything under layers of polite detachment, shatter in an instant. My second hand finds her hip, drawing her closer.

And I know this memory will burn itself into my mind.

Chapter 43

Atticus

The library is almost empty as I move through the aisles with a book tucked under one arm, still replaying the last hour in my head.

It took a few days to arrange a time where we could meet in secret, but our first training session was a miracle. Arwen’s shield had held.

It wasn’t prefect but most non-Pride students struggle for months trying to grasp even the foundation of mental defense. Their minds fight the concept. Mental shielding requires certainty, structure, and control over one’s internal world. Pride builds those instincts from childhood as it’s built into our education curriculum.

Arwen picks it up in an hour. It’s curious…

I stop in front of the political strategy section, running my fingers along the spines while trying not to think about the way her face lit with triumph when she finally pushed me out of her head.

“You’re smiling weird,” she’d accused afterward.

“No, I’m not.”

“You really are.”

I’m sure I was. This girl has me wrapped around her finger.

I pull a book from the shelf for appearances. The library is one of the few places in the academy where disappearing for long stretches doesn’t raise suspicion, and right now suspicion is the last thing I need. If my father’s people notice gaps in my schedule, questions will follow. And those questions will probably lead to Arwen.

The thought wipes the smile from my face.

I turn down another aisle toward the advanced governance texts when movement catches my attention. Tight brown curls bob further down the stacks.

Holly.