Page 48

"That was my remaining practical objection."

"You'll recover."

"I usually do."

I push the coat from his shoulders, letting it slide to the stone floor. He helps only after realizing I am going to do it regardless, then reaches for mine. He eases it from my arms with a slow, deliberate care, his eyes traveling automatically over the bruises left by the last few weeks. His thumb pauses near a darkening mark on my shoulder.

I catch his wrist before he can ask. "They're old."

"Eight days is not old," he rasps, his voice dropping an octave.

"It is when nothing new has been shot at me today."

His mouth moves slightly—almost a smile—then he bends and kisses the bruise. The tenderness of it is a shock, a soft, wet press of lips that feels far more dangerous than any urgency. It sends a shiver straight down my spine, pooling in my lower belly.

I pull him closer, burying my face against his throat. He smells of machine oil, clean water, antiseptic, and a warm, mineral scent that belongs entirely to him. I breathe him in while my mouth follows the markings running beneath his jaw. The first line is warm. The next is scorching.

When I reach the fork at his shoulder, Darius's breath stops.

I have learned that one.

I press my mouth there again, sucking gently on the skin. The sound he makes is a low, guttural growl that I feel vibrating through his chest before I hear it.

The markings ignite.

There is no gradual bloom this time. Light rushes beneath his skin—a violent, molten gold—surging from his throat to his temple, then cascading down across his shoulders and forearms. The light is so bright it paints thin gold shadows between my fingers where they grip his chest. I pull back, breathless.

"That's new."

His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Yes."

"Is it supposed to do that?"

"I don't know."

The admission affects me more than it should. Darius always knows. Now he looks almost shaken, his chest heaving.

"Nothing describes this," he says, his voice a wrecked whisper. "Claire, I don't know."

I touch the light again, and the bond opens between us like a floodgate. Warmth answers from behind my ribs, followed by an overwhelming wave of his emotion: wonder wrapped around a terror so tight they have become the same thing. He is terrified of how much he wants me—of having something he finally wants enough to lose.

I climb onto the bedroll and hold out my hand. "Then come find out."

He looks once toward the edge of the platform. "You positioned the bedroll beside a two-kilometer drop."

"I like the view."

"You have consistently alarming standards for acceptable risk."

"And yet you're taking your shirt off."

That finally gets the laugh—a single, rough syllable. Darius lowers himself beside me, his bad leg extended. I move close enough that my thigh rests against his, the friction of our clothes a teasing torture. I slide my hand over his ribs, watching the markings flare beneath my palm.

He touches me differently tonight. Not cautiously, but deliberately. His hands move over my waist and back, his palms hot, mapping me as if he intends to memorize every curve. He pauses over a fading bruise, and I lean into the contact, my breath hitching.

When he draws me onto him, I go willingly.

I settle above him, one knee planted safely between his legs, my weight balanced on my hands against his shoulders. He is hard beneath me, a thick, throbbing pressure that makes my own wetness ache. I shift, grinding my hips against him, and watch the last of his amusement disappear, replaced by a raw, starving lust.