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One second she was standing in the corridor; the next she was pressed up against the cold stone wall, Hawthorne’s hand engulfing hers, his silver eyes ablaze with fury. ‘What did I tell you about talking like that?’
His powerful body was flush with hers, a muscular thigh between her legs and his face so close to hers that his breath tickled her skin. That achingly familiar scent of leather and rosewood wrapped around her.
‘Now who’s the hothead?’ she challenged. But damn him – her gaze dropped to the soft curve of his lips as the heat of him seeped through her clothes. She felt the shift in him, the awareness of every inch of them pressed together. Her eyes trailed down the strong column of his throat, noting how it bobbed as he swallowed, as though he didn’t trust himself to speak.
His warm hand was still wrapped around hers. She could feel the flutter of his pulse in his wrist. It matched her own, the staccato rhythm fast and wanting. A slight change in footing had his hard length brushing against her stomach and she inhaled sharply, wanting nothing more than to undo his belt and guide him into her.
Gods, she had never ached for someone like this. Her desire had long since overridden her anger, and it was all she could do not to drag his mouth to hers there in the corridor.
Hawthorne’s nostrils flared and he took a measured breath, stepping back from her, blinking back the lustful haze in his eyes. ‘I meant it when I said we’ve got work to do tomorrow. You’re going to pay for your behaviour with Barlowe in the morning,’ he said at last, deep voice rumbling. ‘Go get your things. I expect you at the cabin within the hour.’
Thea watched him stride away, his shoulders rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. Only then did she exhale, the air whistling between her teeth as he disappeared back into the hall.
Her heart was pounding, and it wasn’t from the near brawl with Seb, or what she’d heard Vernich say.
What was Hawthorne thinking? Forcing them to share such close quarters? Was he so intent on shattering her temper? Or worse, her self-control? She’d already slipped once. That kiss in the training ground was seared into her like a brand. Thea had only just managed to leash herself, and even now, she could feel the imprint of his lips on hers.
Her hand drifted to her mouth as she pictured Hawthorne’s cabin with its small living room, and beyond it, his large bed… She pictured him in it, the sheets bunched at his waist. Did he sleep nude?
Gods, this was not helping matters. She was practically radiating heat at the mere thought.
Cursing under her breath, she went to pack her belongings.
* * *
With a small pack of meagre possessions slung over her shoulder, Thea reached the cabin at the western foot of the mountains. She was trying to decide how to broach the topic of Seb and Vernich with Hawthorne when she stopped short at the closed front door. If she was indeed to live here, knocking seemed ridiculous.
‘Fuck it,’ she muttered as she climbed the porch steps and pushed the door open.
It was exactly as she remembered it, the opposite of its inhabitant: warm and welcoming. A fire crackled in the hearth; two tattered armchairs sat before it. A table and chairs were shoved up against the wall beneath one of the windows, while a handful of potted plants were placed around the room.
There was no sign of the Warsword himself, nor of the flower necklace he’d kept from their first journey together. But there was something new discarded on the side table… A blue jewel glinted in the flickering light of the fire, and Thea found herself drawn to it. She dropped her bag on the floor and picked it up, turning it over between her fingers.
It was a sapphire. She’d seen its like gracing the elegant necks of the noble ladies in Harenth when she’d attended King Artos’ feast.
Hawthorne had another woman’s necklace. Her stomach bottomed out as the realisation hit her, a bitter taste coating her tongue. Hawthornehadanother woman’s necklaceand it was here in his cabin. Where he never allowed anyone.
Had she truly been so foolish as to think —
Thea dropped the jewel as though it had burned her. She refused to let her mind wander there, refused to bow to that kernel of jealousy that sparked within. Hawthorne was her mentor; that was the only sense in which he belonged to her. He was free to do whatever, orwhoeverhe pleased.
Steeling herself, she scooped up her pack and padded into the dimly lit bedroom.
Where a narrow cot had been set up against the far wall.
Resignation doused Thea’s anger.Dax’s bed is better than that, she thought.
Grateful for the fact that at least Hawthorne was elsewhere, she slipped off her boots and made for the bathing chamber, hoping to wash up and slide into her cot without having to see him at all.
But when she opened the door, light spilt out.
Before her stood Wilder Hawthorne, nude but for a towel clutched in front of his crotch, his silver eyes aflame.
The Furies knew she hadn’t forgotten what that sculpted, tattooed body looked like, but it was another thing entirely to see it naked and glistening in the flesh.
Holy gods…
Thea flushed at the sight of him, heat blooming between her legs as she surveyed his damp, tousled hair, the breadth of his shoulders and the ridged plane of his abdomen —
