After lunch, we made our way back to the inn’s second floor where a small room awaited us—one bed, of course. Because fate was a dramatic little playwright with no sense of boundaries.
“Let’s rest a bit,” Alaric said, locking the door behind us. “We’ll scout again at sunset.”
I sat on the bed, kicked off my boots, then looked up just in time to see him leaning against the door, eyes on me again.
“Your lips are always pink after stew,” he said quietly.
“What are you—”
He moved. Just a step. Two. Then he was in front of me. Tilting my chin up with one finger.
And kissed me.
Not war-like. Not desperate.
Slow. Hot. Reverent.
Like he had all the time in the world. Like this village didn’t have two rebels hiding. Like I wasn’t lightning wrapped in skin. Like he wanted to remember me thi
