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“How did this happen?” I whispered. “How?”

He shook his head slowly. “I … don’t know.”

I stared. “You didn’t know that … that you could … do this?”

“I didn’t do this,” he said frankly. “You did.”

“The fluffin did it,” I corrected. “And now the little scamp has escaped, as usual.” Nyxaris was still holding my wrist. I pulled it away, slowly, raising my hands to try to smooth down my hair, a futile effort at neatness.

“You look …”

“My hair is a rat’s nest. I’m dirty, and I stink.” I’d been trying to cultivate a laissez-faire attitude. Play it cool, Florence. But to my chagrin, I felt my face heat up even more.

Nyxaris’s eyes had widened slightly. He sniffed the air. I blushed deeper. Then he shook his head. “Not how I’d have described it.”

“What?” I asked dumbly.

“Your scent. It’s magnificent.” His eyes lowered, roaming my body, his nose still twitching slightly, as if he could smell … well, every part of me. Every. Single. Part. “As is all of you.”

“That’s very kind, but—”

“Kind, me? Kind, Fireheart?” He snorted. The sound pierced through me, filling me with joy. My Nyxaris was still in there. “You know I am nothing if not kind,” he said sardonically then slowly shook his head. “We must get out of this field. For your sake, if nothing else.”

“My sake?”

His jaw tightened. His cheeks flushed slightly.

“Nyxaris,” I exclaimed. “Are you … blushing?”

“It’s been … a very long time.” His voice was tight. “And you smell … as I’ve already said.”

“Magnificent,” I breathed. “A strange assessment under the circumstances, I must say.”

“To you, perhaps. To me, highly accurate.”

He took a small step toward me. My hands lifted, pressing against his chest. I gasped, and he groaned. “What is it?” we both said together.

“This. You.” I bit my lip.

“Gods, this is intolerable,” he muttered crossly.

“Me?”

“This. Me. Us. I should get you to safety. We should return to the school. And yet, all I can think of is …”

“Is?”

“Is doing absolutely terrible things to you, Fireheart.”

“Terrible?” My heartbeat quickened. “What sort of terrible things?”

His gaze was predatory, hungry. I drank it in, still unable to believe it was meant for me. “Things beyond your imagining.”

I swallowed. “You might be … surprised by what I’ve imagined.”

He raised one charcoal brow. “Indeed?”

I said nothing. Nyxaris looked down at my hands. Still firmly planted on his bare skin. Then he raised his own and gently traced his fingertips over the tops. I shivered. “In the dark of night, in the quiet of sleep, in the solitude of your bed, what dark deeds have you dreamed of me, Florence?” he whispered. “When I sensed you, blossoming like a flower, filled with desire and spilling over with wet heat, who were you—”