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“Not. Drunk. I’m …” What? I don’t even know where I’m going with this thought. And I don’t realize that I’ve pushed to my feet, until I sway forward a step and notice the flinch of Titus’s muscles, as if to catch me. “I’m jus … gonna put some m’sic on.”

He hikes up his knees, his legs tight to his body, clearing a path for me to the CD player. “I told you to go easy on the wine. It’s strong.”

“I’m a Daughter …. I’ve had plenty’f wine. Blood of Christ, and all that.” I wave my hand in dismissal as I stumble forward.

Titus lets out a snort, turning away from me, and shakes his head, which I take as mockery, or disapproval.

Before I even realize it, I’m standing over him. “Y’think the blood of Christ is funny? He died. For o’sins.”

“No, I don’t think the blood of Christ is funny.” The humor in his voice is unexpected and strange, unless it’s just my state of mind interpreting it that way. “You’re entertaining, though.”

“En’ertaining? ‘Sat what I am?”

He lifts his glass for another sip, but I see the dimples in his cheeks that tell me he’s smiling again.

Mildly bothered by his amusement, I stumble toward the CD player and press the play button. The moment the music begins, I sway to the beat of Stand By Me by Ben E. King. Singing the words I remember from childhood, I dance my way to my cup for another sip. When I turn, Titus still has his knee hiked up, his half empty glass of wine dangling from his grasp, head tipped as he watches me.

Flicking my fingers, I cross the small space and tug on the arm he rests against his one outstretched thigh. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance.”

I take the glass from him, setting it on the floor beside him, and give a hard tug that, if he didn’t put some effort into it himself, would fail to move him, at all.

With a whole lot of reluctance, the giant pushes to his feet, shaking his head. “I can’t dance.”

“I don’t. I can’t. If I sai’tha’ earlier today, you’d’ve chided me for no’ trying.”

No level of concentration seems to be able to remove the slur of my words. I rise up, up, onto my tiptoes and grip his shoulders, which feel like a hard steel ball in each hand.

“Stand here,” I say, using his same words from our knife training session earlier. “Use this arm, for m’mentum.” Sliding my hand beneath his underarm, I prod it outward and take his hand in mine. “This hand’s fer stability.” Setting his other hand at my waist sends a tickle through my stomach, particularly when he curls his fingers possessively. Pausing to regain my composure, I clear my throat. “Now, sway. Back and forth.”

In stiff, inflexible movements, he rocks back and forth on his feet.

“Good. See? Easy-peasy.”

Humming the music, as we dance, I revel in the simplicity I’ve missed so much.

He pulls my body tighter to his, and my back stiffens with the more intimate contact, each exhale through my nose more shaky. Even as tipsy as I am, I can feel the electricity burning between us. The heat radiating off his skin absorbed into mine. The way his solid body presses against my softer parts. I’m not accustomed to these kinds of interactions with men, particularly one so robust as Titus.

I feel small beside him. Safe. Protected.

My own personal Alpha.

A ridiculous thought, seeing as these men were designed to enhance armies. To give them an edge over the enemy and ensure victory. Keeping him for myself would be like hoarding my own personal special forces unit.

Lying my cheek against his chest places my ear to where his heart beats in a steady cadence, and I could fall asleep in his arms right now, if my nerves weren’t so wired. Our swaying slows. Slower. I don’t realize I’ve wrapped my arms around him until I notice the absence of his around me.

I tip my head back, lifting my gaze to find him staring down at me. Wordlessly pushing up to my toes, I snake my arms around his neck, drawing him to my lips. At the first feathering of his lips against mine, he pulls back, and I frown, confused.

“A lesser man would take advantage of you right now.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Nothing but a fine thread.”

Smiling, I slide my fingers up the back of his neck to his hairline, which seems to send his eyes rolling back, before they shutter closed. “How ‘bout if I help you snap tha’ thread to bits.”

He opens his eyes to me again. “I think you’ll regret that.”